


Can We Pretend For a While?

by SeptemberSevertana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Memory Loss, Sherlock Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 57,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14586486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptemberSevertana/pseuds/SeptemberSevertana
Summary: John doesn't expect a man to show up at his flat asking to be his boyfriend as an experiment. He doesn't expect his sister to get dragged into it either. And he certainly doesn't expect the man to insist they've met before.





	1. 05:00

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm cross-posting this from FanFiction and it's complete, so all the chapters should be out soon. I hope you enjoy.

No one expects a knock at their door at 5 am, least of all John Watson. He sleepily rolled out of bed, rubbing his eyes while attempting to put on a dressing gown. He'd gotten back from...wherever it had been last night (?) and collapsed on top of the covers, so he wasn't exactly in the best state to be receiving. Obviously, the person at the threshold of the flat didn't particularly care about that. He picked up his phone from the bedside table and walked out to the main part of the flat. John ran a hand through his hair, which had fluffed into a crazy mess, trying to remotely fix it before he opened the door.

The man standing in front of John didn't look at all familiar. John wracked his brain for a reason he could know him. His hair was dark and haphazardly curly, his form was thin, his cheekbones were pronounced, and his eyes were clear blue-grey. He was beautiful, and it was so strange that the army doctor nearly had to step back. "Hello," John's fuzzy voice said. "Can I help you?"

He cocked his head at John. "It would help if you invited me in. The morning is quite cold."

"Alrigh-" The man pushed past him, heading toward the chair across from John's preferred one. That chair had always been empty as far as John knew, and yet the visitor seemed so  _right_  in it. John shook his head and sat down, waiting for the man to tell him why he was here. Of course, the man refused to speak for several minutes, staring at him. His gaze was penetrating, searching, taking John apart piece by piece. This person had something about him, but John thought he was too tired to fully figure it out.

"So, who are you, and what are you doing here at 5 in the morning?" the army doctor asked, impatient suddenly.

The man merely smiled, a gentle smile that lit his face up, even though John felt it looked slightly odd on him. Something told him that this man was rarely happy enough to do such a thing. "I have something to ask of you."

"You could have started with that," John berated, but the visitor didn't react.

"I've lived adjacent from you for around a year now, and since we are acquainted and I have few others to ask, I would like you and I to perform an experiment."

John looked at the man with surprise. He'd never seen this man in his life, and he would have noticed if the two of them had lived in flats just across from the other. "Really?"

"I will seldom 'pull your leg', as many mundane people call it. I have no desire to, besides. The experiment is simple: you have to pretend to be my partner."

John raised an eyebrow. "Partner?"

"Partner, lover, boyfriend, whatever you say now."

His mouth fell open. "What makes you think I'm willing? We just met, and I'm not gay, plus it's bloody five am and I can't think straight!"

The man shook his head. "We've met before. And as I said, I can ask few others, considering I can hardly stand speaking with most individuals, and you just have to pretend. Pretending is the only reason I thought it vaguely appropriate to say anything." His bow lips turned down. "I...lost someone recently, and before that, they lost me, and I want to see if I can recover at all. You will be invaluable." He muttered something under his breath after that, but John couldn't hear what it was.

The doctor knew about loss. It brushed the corners of his mind sometimes, but he had pushed it so far away that he wondered what he was mourning. All the dreams John had with the mysterious pain faded as soon as he woke, so he never remembered them. He still felt a part of himself missing.

Somehow, he knew what he'd answer the not-familiar, yet beautiful stranger. It made absolutely no sense, but the sentence came out all the same. "I'll do it."

It was the man's turn to ask, "Really?"

"Of course. I do things if people ask me nicely." A small grin spread over John's face. "I should probably know your name if we're going to be fake boyfriends."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but I go by Sherlock. The normal public calls me something else."

"What is it?"

The man, Sherlock, gave him a lookover. "You're an army doctor, recently discharged because of an injury, not so bad that you are permanently disabled, but bad enough to send you home. Your limp is psychosomatic and you were stationed in Afghanistan. You have a sibling that you refused to share a flat with because you don't like them, either because of their drinking or the fact that they just walked out on their wife. What does the public call me?"

John stared at him blankly for several seconds, long enough to make most people uncomfortable, but not Sherlock. "Explain how you know all of that. It's all correct, by the way."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and explained everything. When he finished, John was staring even worse than before. "Brilliant."

"What?"

"The public calls you brilliant."

"Is it really brilliant?" Sherlock's question was a real wondering sort.

"Of course. It's extraordinary."

Sherlock smiled, a mischievous smile this time. "That isn't what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off. And then they call me a freak."

John's mouth turned down. "They shouldn't be allowed to call you that. You're not a freak."

The other man just smirked. "That's the kind of thing my boyfriend would say. You're rather good at this for knowing me for five minutes."

"That isn't it. It's normal to try and defend someone."

"Obviously it is not normal to me." Sherlock began to get up out of the chair. "You are aware of the new case taken by the Scotland Yard?"

John shook his head. "Nope."

"Doesn't matter. I'll be at the crime scene, and as you're a doctor, I want you there with me." Sherlock paused on his way out of the door. "You've seen a lot of bodies, haven't you? Grave injuries, deaths. Do you want to see some more?"

John's answer surprised neither him nor the man that had invaded his flat so early in the morning. "Oh God yes."

* * *

Sherlock appeared in front of John's door again several hours later, wearing a long black wool coat, a navy scarf tied around his neck. "The crime scene isn't far from here," he started. "You might want to hurry. Lestrade will be peeved if I show up late again."

"You don't seem the type to be late," John remarked, sliding his own coat on and grabbing his cane.

Sherlock didn't answer, and he walked down the stairs like he was dismissing the statement. John thought this was strange, but followed. The sky was dark, a result of it being winter, even though it was only seven pm. Rain spat from the sky, not much, but enough for John to be glad he brought a warmer jacket. His companion was quiet all through the cab ride, his hands pressed together like he was praying poised under his chin. John wasn't really sure about the whole 'boyfriends' thing; however, something told him the tall man sitting next to him was trustworthy. He laughed, thinking of the entirely mad things that could come out of it.

"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock asked monotonously, as if he wasn't really paying attention.

"Because you and I are so crazy that the mental hospitals exist because of us."

Sherlock smiled. "Get used to that."

The rest of the cab ride went by quickly, and soon the two of them were strolling into a decrepit flat, not well taken care of at all. There were police cars all over the place, but Sherlock neatly maneuvered through them. Inside, officers were walking around with flashlights. A gray-haired man stood out a bit, talking to a darker-skinned woman with corkscrew curly hair. "Lestrade. Where's the space?" Sherlock asked without prelude.

He turned to look at him. "Oh. Figures you would show up. Down the hall and to the left. Who's that?"

John answered, "I'm a doctor. Sherlock asked me if I could come on this case with him."

A mousy-looking man came up to them, wearing plastic gloves and what John thought was an extremely unpleasant expression. "He has no clearance to be on the crime scene, much less his tagalong. Tell the Freak to leave." John saw Sherlock nearly imperceptibly wince at the name, and John himself had his fists clenched.

"Anderson, I wouldn't have to bring my own people on cases if you lot weren't so incompetent," Sherlock said, walking past Anderson without a second glance. The man fumed, but John just tried to choke down a laugh. Sherlock really had them all beat, didn't he?

"John, look at the place. Anything that looks wrong, tell me." John nodded, scanning the area. The room was small, smelled of beer, and had been recently vacated. There were bottles in random places on the floor, the necklace draped on the back of one of the chairs was expensive but not too much, and strangely familiar, the ceiling had cracks spider-webbing over it. Overall, an alcoholic's flat, and a woman's one at that. It reminded John slightly of his sister Harry, but he shook that thought off before it could get much farther than a simple statement.

"Harry Watson," Sherlock blurted.

"What?"

"Is it so impossible to forget your own sibling's name? I would be infinitely more jovial if I forgot my brother's, but I expected more from you, John."

"No. I meant how did you think of her? I did too, but she lives somewhere else."

"She obviously doesn't. This is her flat, which she so conveniently was kidnapped from. The question is why."

John stared at him, angrily and in disbelief. "What evidence is there to prove my sister lived here? You've never even met her!"

"True enough. It's probably why she's in this predicament." Sherlock ignored John's questioning look. "You see the mail on the table? All the postmarks have been crossed out. She's moved from somewhere else; hasn't even been long enough for the Forward on the letters to have gone. The boxes in the corner have old things in them, badly done photographs with a female that looks exactly like you and her girlfriend. Bottles covering the floor, your sister has been an alcoholic for some time. That necklace has the initials CW on the back of it; Harriet bought it for Clara as a wedding present around...a year and a half ago."

"I remember Harry wouldn't take it off when I got home from the war," John said in wonder. "I knew there was something about it."

Sherlock shifted on his feet. "The person that took her had big feet, balance of probability, we're dealing with a man. Heavy footsteps, heavy enough to bend the floorboards a little. This man knew what he was doing as well, deliberately having used enough chloroform for two hours of unconsciousness. She's not that far from here, considering this criminal had a sponsor that knew the traffic patterns."

"How do you know if he had a sponsor?"

"This man was hired to be the muscle of this operation. He isn't smart, he ran off clomping through the building so everyone would know he was there, and that is not a mistake a smart criminal makes. In conclusion, Harriet was physically kidnapped by an idiot but in the custody of someone very intelligent, however, she was taken not because of anything she did. Only letters were taken along with her, so something about her correspondence damned her." John winced at the description of his sister's fate, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"Why do you call her Harriet? No one calls her that."

"Because it is her formal name, and I do not informally know her."

John took that reply and began to walk outside, knowing Sherlock had a destination in mind. The detective, as John now thought of the man beside him, was incessantly fidgeting, tapping his fingers together, wearing a zigzagged path behind him. Lestrade and Anderson were having a conversation about the possible meanings of the scuffs on the walls. Not that they knew anything. When Sherlock carefully avoided them, John had a feeling there might be a reason. Of course, Sherlock would never admit weakness to others; John was an exception just because he was an experiment.

As Sherlock stood on the sidewalk, John reached a hand out and entwined it through his. The detective looked down in what seemed to be alarm mixed with relief. "Why did you do that?" he asked. The other man noticed he made no move to pull his hand away.

John shrugged a shoulder. "You needed me to."

Sherlock gave him a small but genuine smile. "Thank you." The Yarders nearby gaped at their exchange, but John ignored them.

"And just so you know," he got closer to Sherlock's ear so the policemen couldn't hear them, "that was amazing in there. You're extraordinary."

Sherlock's pale face tinted the barest shade of pink. "I knew you'd be the best subject for this experiment. You make an excellent boyfriend."

"You deserve one." That didn't exactly help the color spreading across the detective's features. "Now, let's go find my sister."

* * *

_The night before conducting his experiment, Sherlock Holmes woke up with tears running down his face. This was too common; it cut at what little sanity he had left. 221C wasn't close enough; eventually, he'd have to get closer. It hurt too much to be far away._

_"I just want to pretend for a little while. Then I'll cease this infernal...emotion," Sherlock whispered quietly to himself. He knew he was lying, but was far beyond caring about it. "Just a little while."_


	2. 14:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm digging out my HTML skills to post here and they're really dusty. If you see any inconsistencies I would love to know so I can get better. Thanks guys!

Sherlock seemed to know exactly where he was going, or where he had instructed the cabbie to take them. That was one of the things that John knew were his: knowing things that no one else knew.

But something nagged at John. Harry wasn't exactly a great person, but she knew not to do anything illegal or aggravate the wrong people. So Harry getting kidnapped didn't make sense.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock's eyes sparkled as they looked at him.

"Er..." He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the feeling that melted into him with that glance. _I am not gay, this is a favor._ "Why was Harry targeted?"

The other man didn't answer for a moment. "It has to do with you, your letters you sent to her updating Harriet on your life. Clara loved her and would never hurt her, and your parents are dead, so you are the only thing of importance that she has left. And you, John, are very important." John knew his face was heating up.

"Was it my time in the army? I didn't think I told her anything classified," John fretted.

Sherlock slowly moved a hand closer to him, but didn't touch him. "You didn't tell her anything wrong. We'll find out what the problem is when we get it out of her captor."

John smiled a little. "And how are we going to 'get it out of her captor'? I thought there was more than one person anyhow."

"The other person left instructions before he died. I've dealt with him earlier, this has him all over it." He paused. "And we'll beat it out of him. Is there any other way with idiotic criminals?" John full-on grinned at that.

They arrived at a group of warehouses labeled 1 through 6. Sherlock paid the cabbie, but the person said, "You know this is a bad part of London, mate?"

"Of course I know," Sherlock said dismissively. "That's part of the fun." John got out after him, smiling at the poor cabbie that had no idea why this crazy man would purposely come there. Sherlock was rubbing his hands together in glee. "Now, where are you, my dear?" John saw his eyes lock on one building in particular. He grabbed John's hand and started running. John could feel the detective's heartbeat explode into his wrist, just as his was doing.

The warehouse at the very end of the line was closed, unlike the others that were all open. "Can this kidnapper get any more stupid?" Sherlock asked with a giddy laugh, pulling John over to it. John decided he really really liked this version of the detective: the crazy mad deductions master with eyes glowing silver. "You know how to kick down doors, and here's a marvelous opportunity."

John nodded, bringing his foot up and doing some serious damage. Sherlock laughed happily. "This is why I chose you," he said.

John turned to look at him. "Why?"

"Because you're amazing." Sherlock practically shone when he said it. "Your sister should be not far from here." This time, John led the way, spotting the figure on the floor immediately. But, once he got nearer, he noticed the person was a man, bound and gagged, obviously struggling.

"That is not Harriet," Sherlock said quizzically.

"According to your description, that's the captor." The captor, as if acknowledging that was who he was, moved around even more.

"We can see you." Sherlock's voice was annoyed and vaguely disappointed. "But Harriet is the problem, not you."

John gazed around. "If Harry did this, I know where she could be." Sherlock was spared a response by a loud noise echoing from behind them.

"Johnny!" a drunken voice yelled.

John sighed. "The nearest hiding place. Behind the open door."

"That isn't any way to greet your big sissy!" Harry said, her hands on her hips as she staggered into a patch of light made by a window. "Say hello!"

"Hello, Harry," John replied begrudgingly. Suddenly his tone became hard. "I was worried about you! You can't just walk in and say hi!"

"Sorry," the drunk woman giggled. "And hello, Sherlock Holmes. You're really as gorgeous as John said."

John and Sherlock both looked equally taken aback. "What the hell are you talking-" "What do you mean, John never-" The two cut themselves off once they realized they were speaking at the same time.

"I met him this morning at 5 am, I wouldn't have told you about him," John said.

"Well, _obviously_ you did, because otherwise my brain wouldn't have cared," Harry slurred. "Plus, you met him over two years ago, you silly boy."

Sherlock's face went simultaneously white and blank. "We spoke for the first time today, Harriet," he said slowly, almost dazedly. "There was no other time that anyone else in the building knows about. You're intoxicated and need to go home."

Harry let out a short burst of laughter. "Liar, liar, pants on fire. Johnny and Locky kissing in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love, then comes death!"

John shook his head. He could not believe this. She was so much worse than he remembered. There were tears in his eyes, but he tried to keep them back. "Harry, we need to take you home. The police will arrest the man that kidnapped you, and we can leave this alone."

Sherlock picked her up and carried her out of the warehouse, ignoring the drunken statements she shouted. John was holding his head like a migraine had come. "She can sleep on my couch tonight," he told Sherlock.

"Our couch." John looked at him like he was crazy. "We do have an experiment going on, and I will get results with or without your sister singing obscene children's rhymes. I'm staying with you."

John laughed. "That isn't an obscene rhyme."

"Oh yes, it is. Plus, you owe me for dragging her out of here. I don't think you could accomplish it with your stature."

With a snort, John replied, "Aren't boyfriends supposed to be nice about little things like that?"

"If you are counting yourself in that number."

"I just called you my boyfriend," the other man groaned.

"And it is greatly appreciated. I may finish this experiment yet."

The three of them ended up in another cab, going the opposite direction back to 'their' flat. John was in no way used to the whole 'boyfriend experiment' thing, so the 'sharing a flat' thing was harder to get past. But he didn't mind that much. Sherlock made up for all of that, however, Harry would probably be dead soon if she didn't stop the singing.

It took both of them to drag the loopy sister up the stairs and into 221B. She was not making it easy at all. "I'm contemplating sleeping pills to get her to be quiet and lay still," John half-joked.

"Maybe something a little stronger," Sherlock grunted.

"What do you want for dinner?"

The detective snorted. "Eating is tedious and interferes with my mental processes." John's mouth tightened into a hard line.

"Yeah right. Seriously, I will make you eat."

"Good luck with that. It's unnecessary, and as my boyfriend, you should respect that."

"I respect that you're important to me and by extension your health." It had turned into a staring contest between the two men. John smirked. In the army, he had some mates that just would not back down, so he'd gotten very good at intimidation. Of course, Sherlock wasn't about to be forced into saying John was smarter than him.

The contest would have gone on for much longer had Harry not chosen that moment to pop her head up. "You two are practically eye-stripping each other, and it's creepy to see my little bro do that."

Sherlock blushed deeply, while John scolded, "Just because you're my sister doesn't mean you get to make short jokes too."

Harry rolled her eyes. "La la la. Whatever you say."

"Now stop that, or I'll take Sherlock up on his offer."

With an eyebrow wiggle, she answered, "Which offer exactly?"

This time, John was blushing, and he stumbled over a few words saying, "Sherlock, please give me patience."

"One of the things you should know as my boyfriend is that I have no patience at all. Apologies, but I have none to give," Sherlock huffed curtly. "Harriet, we will drug you. My brother has ways and means that I have no wish to think about to knock you out for several days."

Harry obviously wasn't believing anything he said. "Yada, yada. All I want is to know why you two are bringing me to your flat. I have my own flat."

"Filled with beer and lacking Clara," John sighed. "Plus, you and Sherlock need to talk about the kidnapping. He had some theories."

That actually shut the female up, which surprised both men. "Now, back to our original conversation. Sherlock, what do you want for dinner?"

"Aren't I supposed to like whatever my boyfriend makes?" They'd knocked against the door, and John had to fumble for the key.

"I keep thinking I'll get used to that title, but I really doubt it." John let them all into 221B, dropping his keys in the bowl next to the door.

"I've never used the title before in my life, to refer to anyone, much less _mine_." John smiled. Sherlock was like a child, a little bit. He didn't know things that most people did, and knew things that most people would never know. A paradox. A very handsome paradox. _Alright, what the hell is wrong with you?! Snap out of it John, you are_ not gay. He shook his head and walked into the kitchen.

"Chicken alfredo sound good?" Harry nodded eagerly, while the detective just waved his hand in an 'I guess it sounds fine' kind of gesture. John knew that was as good as it was going to get, so he started the boiling water.

As he cooked, he couldn't help but notice Sherlock watching his every move curiously. But his curiosity wasn't just that, there was more, John could see it. His silver eyes were...glistening? Glowing? Not really. Shining. John took a closer view when he knew Sherlock wasn't looking. There was something...Longing. Love. And it was painful to him, but he was doing a damn good job of keeping it hidden.

John reached a hand out to wrap around Sherlock's tapping fingers. The man looked up like he hadn't seen John coming. "Why are you doing that?" he asked quietly.

"You look sad. I don't imagine that's a common occurrence." Sherlock's lips twitched up. "Want to talk about it? I am your boyfriend after all."

The man responded by further intertwining their hands. He looked peaceful now, but still sad, John noticed. "I had someone. A friend." Sherlock winced as he said the word. "My only friend. And I left him, when I always thought he was going to be the one leaving me. I know it wasn't my fault, but I don't tend to believe that most days. You remind me of him, you have since I first saw you, and I thought, irrationally I know, that maybe I could treat you as well as he deserved and I'd move on."

"Are you sure he has?" John asked, feeling a wrenching sensation in his chest that reminded him of his limp: existing, but with no reason. A phantom ache. It didn't make sense.

Sherlock nodded. "I know he has. I can't get him back." John gazed at their hands on the counter for a moment before returning, one-handed mind you, to the pasta.

"Well, I can't let my boyfriend sleep all alone when he's feeling like this." John's smile was warm and comforting, and he wanted it to reach the genius so badly. "Eat, stay, and sleep. I'm pretty sure you don't do any of those things enough."

"Stop flirting and get me some food!" Harry shouted from the couch.

Both men blushed, but Sherlock's was more invisible than John's. "It is amazing that she can shout even though she should be getting a hangover sometime soon," John remarked. Sherlock nodded, neither of them moving their hands.

* * *

Night fell soon enough, Harry crashing on the couch, and John and Sherlock moving into John's room. "We can both sleep in the same bed, or if you're not comfortable with that, I have a spare bedroom."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Why did you bring me in here then?"

"To see if you need any blankets," John quickly responded.

Sherlock laughed for the first time since the warehouse. "I sleep in just a sheet normally, so this is more than I expected."

"With me or in the guest room?"

"With the drunk lesbian woman out there. Of course, with you!" Sherlock sat on the bed and didn't look like he was going to move anytime soon, so John smiled and rummaged through his dresser, trying to find something of his that could fit the much taller man. When he had got to the bottom of his very top drawer, he saw some items that didn't look like his.

"Hey, Sherlock? I found you some pajamas." He tossed them to the detective. "They aren't mine, so I don't know how they ended up here, but they seem to be your size-ish." Sherlock stared at the articles for a minute, shocked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, they just remind me of my favorite pajamas at my place."

John just smiled. "What a happy coincidence. I'll be in the bathroom brushing my teeth." He left the room.

Sherlock hastily changed into the clothing, muttering to himself about people that believed in coincidences that never knew about the law of large numbers. He knew that wasn't the problem, but he tried to convince himself it was. John returned after a few minutes, having dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. "Do you need to brush your teeth? I have an extra toothbrush."

He shook his head no, and John shrugged. "Alright. Sleep then?" Sherlock nodded this time, feeling not fully able to speak. The two climbed into the bed, Sherlock attempting to take up as little space as possible, John settling easily. The detective was warm and tired for the first time in a while, but couldn't relax his guard. An hour passed, but Sherlock couldn't go to sleep. "How are you comfortable over there?" John asked blearily, clearly about to fall asleep and having had enough of the other man. "Get over here, you git." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, curling into him.

_He's softer than I thought,_ John thought as he held the other man. "Isn't that better?" he mumbled. "You deserve better than you've been getting."

"Yes," Sherlock whispered back. "Thank you." He paused. "Goodnight, John." But John was already asleep. "I miss you," he breathed.

* * *

_For once, Sherlock's dreams were blurry. And happy._


	3. 09:00

John woke up to the feeling of another's arms around him. He sighed and snuggled closer. It had been too long since he'd woken up like that. The other's body felt different, though; thinner. John could almost feel individual ribs, count them. One, two, three, four... As he moved his hand up, he ran his hands over muscle. The person was stronger than they looked, but soft at the same time. John liked it a lot, maybe more than he should have.

He turned his attention away from their chest, shifting to the two's position. John didn't have to open his eyes to feel how entwined their legs were, John's head buried in the spot where the neck met the shoulder, the other's arm encircling his back protectively. He felt loved.

Somewhere that seemed really far away, a woman's voice grunted in pain. This was enough to make John have to actually open his eyes and look where he was. The person was Sherlock.

That sent a shock signal through John, but he tried not to move. Sherlock didn't seem like he got any sleep, much less enough sleep, so John needed to make sure he was taking care of himself. They were boyfriends, after all. Plus, John felt a need to protect the mysterious detective with silver eyes filled with sadness. He was somehow a part of him, and John didn't understand that. Yesterday felt like months ago, when this whole thing started.

Sherlock stirred a few minutes later, wriggling a little before sighing and slowly peeling open one eye, then the other.  _He looks so vulnerable,_ John thought.  _Like a child._ "Good morning, Sherlock," John said.

The detective murmured something that sounded like, "Greetings are pointless," but didn't object more than that. His voice was raspy, adding a new layer to his natural baritone. John expected him to want to get up quickly, but he just held John tighter, as if he was almost  _reassuring_  himself that John was still there.

"Hey, are you okay?" John asked gently.

Sherlock nodded against John's head. "Just memories."

"Okay." Neither spoke for a few seconds. "We need to get up and give Harry some meds for her hangover."

"But I don't want to," Sherlock said plaintively.

John grinned. "I don't either. But we have to." He carefully began extracting himself from Sherlock's arms. It took quite a long time, but eventually he managed to leave the bed and walk to the bathroom. When he came out, Sherlock had wrapped himself in a sheet and stood up.

* * *

_"We are in Buckingham Palace, and you are in a sheet?"_

_"Yes."_

_John looked down slightly. "Are you wearing any pants?"_

_"No." The two men stayed quiet for a few seconds, then burst out laughing uncontrollably._

* * *

John shook his head. What the hell was that? He went into the main part of the flat to greet his sister, who was groaning and moaning. "Johnny, I need ibuprofen, now!"

"You shouldn't have been drinking. I should let you suffer," he replied.

Harry groaned again, but when she saw Sherlock, she laughed. "Oh, so you and the hot detective got some action last night?"

"No," both answered, turning red. "I wake up like this all the time," Sherlock continued.

"So, you have a lot of one-night stands?"

Sherlock didn't get it for a moment, but once he did, his face flushed deeply. "I have never been in a relationship, much less a sexual one."

Harry rolled her eyes. "John, ibuprofen." John nodded, walking to the cabinets and searching through them for the pill bottles. When he found the one labeled 'ibuprofen' and handed it to his sister.

"Don't overdose. That's dangerous."

* * *

_"Is it a danger night?"_

_The man's voice was cool, yet worried, or as worried as the man was known to get. "We never know until it happens."_

* * *

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked. John turned to face him.

"I think so. I guess I just spaced out." He paused, trying to reorient himself. "Now, what do you two want for breakfast?"

Sherlock attempted to look defiant. "Nothing, as always."

"Pancakes it is. Harry?"

"I'm good with that." John took out a pan and put it on the stove. He'd been eating takeout the past few weeks, so seeing the domesticity of it was a bit strange.  _Or not seeing something disgusting on the stove is strange._

Sherlock and Harry waited on the couch for John to finish, Harry because she was hungry, and Sherlock because he liked having John's attention on him. It was entirely irrational, but then, this whole emotions business was. He hadn't expected John to agree to the proposition of being boyfriends so easily. Maybe it had something to do with the...no, never mind, there was no logical reason why John would ever want to date someone like Sherlock. He pondered it for a while, but Harry broke his concentration with a wave of her hand.

"Hey genius guy," she said. "You look like you're thinking about something sad."

"I wasn't really," Sherlock answered curtly.

Harry laughed bitterly. "Yeah right. That's the expression my brother used to wear all the time. I'm a drunk, not stupid. You look fine when he looks over, but then when he looks away, your face slips. You're not okay, and you don't want him to see."

Sherlock looked at her with, as the general public called it, 'new eyes'. "You remind me of one of my friends. And..." He hesitated, knowing he could be made vulnerable with the words, "you're absolutely right. I am not okay."

Harry smacked him upside the head. "Idiot. You could have started with that. What's the problem? It obviously has to do with John."

"Something that has lasted far too long and I'm trying to rid myself of." He would say no more about it, mostly because John was finished with breakfast.

"Alright, you two, here you are." John came back over with a large plateful of pancakes to see Sherlock with his arms folded, turned away from his sister. The gesture was oddly childish on someone so tall and gorgeous and  _John, stop that thought right now._ Harry liked to get things out of people, and she'd tried it on Sherlock, who wasn't having any of it. "Harry, leave him alone. He doesn't like the prying."

"How do you know what I was doing?" Harry asked indignantly.

"You are exactly correct, John. She was prying," Sherlock said, face shifting slightly. He looked much happier now that John was back, but that couldn't have been the reason. John was imagining things. "I haven't had pancakes in a long time. Do you have any chocolate chips?" he continued eagerly.

John laughed at the man. "Yes, I do as a matter of fact. What're the magic words?"

Sherlock tilted his head at John, seeming to contemplate something, and then stood up. He took barely a stride and abruptly wrapped his arms around him, laying his head on John's shoulder. John was close to frozen, being very surprised, and yet unconsciously leaned into the touch. "Can we go on a date today?" Sherlock asked.

Catching his breath, since Sherlock had drawn it out of him, John replied, "Those aren't the magic words."

"I don't know any such 'magic words'," Sherlock said, voice vibrating into John's shoulder. "I was just asking a question."

"The magic words in this case are, 'may I please have some chocolate chips'." John could almost feel Sherlock roll his eyes. "I'll get them as soon as you let go of me."

"But I don't want to let you go." Sherlock did, but the look on his face was pouting.

"Thank you, darling," John smirked and went back to the cupboards to grab the bag of the sweet stuff. Sherlock wondered if he really heard John call him darling. It sounded flirtatious and  _sexy_ coming from his lips. Damn.

"Now dig in, both of you." John had come back with a yellow bag in his hands. Harry had three pancakes on her plate, while Sherlock had one, but once he had a hold of the chocolate chips, the two were about even.

As John ate, he watched the detective. John had weaknesses for dark hair, and curly or wavy hair, so having someone with both traits, especially one like Sherlock, with his brilliant mind and a face like a fallen angel's, had a great possibility of making this relationship go very far very fast. But that wasn't the aim of the relationship, John reminded himself. The point was for Sherlock to move on, and find someone else once John bored him.

John didn't want to entertain that thought for long.

"That was marvelous," Harry said after successfully inhaling her pancakes. "My hangover feels slightly better. Johnny, I need to go to the market."

John didn't question this, but Sherlock found it a rather strange request. "Why does she need to go to the market?"

Harry clammed up, and John groaned. "This is kind of a sensitive subject."

"I know all about those." He smirked. "My brother is the British government."

Instead of answering, John turned to Harry. Sherlock would have to wait until Harry was gone if he wanted to know why Harry was leaving. "You have my number if you need me."

* * *

_"Gave you my number," a man asked, deceivingly perky._

_"Get those off him." Someone pointed to the red lights on his chest._

_"Too fun of a game to do that."_

_"People have died." There was a note of desperation in his voice, but only John knew it was there._

_"That's what people **DO!** "_

* * *

"John?"

He looked up. "Yeah, you can head out now." Harry gave him a worried glance before heading out the door to 221B.

"John?" This time it was Sherlock asking.

"Yes?"

He tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. "Can we go on a date?"

John smiled and hugged him. "Of course. Where do you want to go?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Angelo's. It's a nice Italian establishment not too far away, plus, I helped the owner out of a rough spot, so we might get the meal close to free."

John nodded. "Sounds good. Until then, I can show you what other things boyfriends do." Sherlock's face went blank. "Have you seen any movies recently?" He shook his head. "Alright, then I can show you my favorites."

Sherlock agreed to that, curling up with his head in John's lap on the couch as soon as the movie started. The detective seemed peaceful, happy. This made John feel a little more calm. He'd been restless, just a little. He didn't know what he wanted, and it bothered him.

Sherlock was perfectly content with the situation. John was warm and soft and his hand was running over Sherlock's curls, threading through them. He'd always wanted someone to do that. "She goes to the market to see if she can find Clara again," John said suddenly, ninety-four minutes into the movie.

"I always believed sentiment did bad things to people." Sherlock paused. "I became its victim and now I'm not so sure."

John's expression was heartbreakingly gentle. Sherlock wanted to kiss him until their lips were swollen. "It's okay to love and be hurt. That's what happened to you, you loved and were hurt?"

The stabbing pain from his nightmares was back. "Yes." He nestled even closer to John, if that was possible. The movie continued, with its gigantic holes in the plot that Sherlock pointed out more times than he didn't. When it (finally) was concluded, John asked a question.

"Sherlock Holmes, will you go out with me?"

Sherlock scanned him and made sure he wasn't joking. "Why?"

"I realized we didn't do anything properly when we started this experiment." John's eyes sparkled. "You don't know much about dating, do you?"

"No."

John laughed, but it was sweet and made something in his stomach flutter. Of course, that was scientifically impossible and therefore not what was really happening. "It starts with a question. Will you go out with me?"

Sherlock blushed. "Yes."

John blushed a bit as well. "Lovely. Now, how about we make our way through these, as you called them, 'detrimental' movies and wait for my sister to come home, and then we can go out on a real date."

"Yes," Sherlock said again.  _This might become more than an experiment,_  the genius thought.  _And I will not object that at all._

* * *

_John was standing right in front of a window, and not five meters away was another window, one that he could see through but could not reach. He had a gun in his hand, a standard military-issue Sig Sauer, and it was loaded and ready. Two men stood in the other window, both holding pink and white pills in their hands. The time was now._

_He carefully took aim and shot._

_Later, he remembered the bright orange shock blanket, and the indignant man under it, insisting it wasn't necessary. When he caught sight of John, he immediately stopped talking, staring at him. Once they were free of the nurses and police, the man told John, "Nice shot."_

_The two of them talked about the case for a few minutes, finally bursting into laughter that many stared at them for. "Shh, this is a crime scene," John said breathlessly before dissolving into more giggles._

_Both men left the place, knowing their lives would never be the same again._ John woke, but didn't remember a thing.


	4. 18:00

"If I never see another movie again, it will be too soon." Sherlock still hadn't moved from his position laying down on the couch, Union Jack pillow under his feet and his head in John's lap.

John just smiled softly. "You don't hate it as much as you say."

Sherlock huffed and muttered, "How did I ever stand how right you always are?" but he made sure John wouldn't be able to hear him. He wasn't ready to have that conversation. Plus, the tingling streaking through his body like electricity was making it too hard to think.

John looked down at the man with a gaze of fondness. He didn't know how, but Sherlock had bypassed all his doctor-soldier-brother-fighter defenses and wove himself into the heart that existed under that. Sherlock just  _glowed._  And God, would John be lying if he said it didn't make him glow, too.

The two men were in a haze, but both would deny it if asked.

"Well," John said, getting ready to rise from the couch. "We should put on some date-clothes. I'm treating you, and you're not allowed to protest." Of course, Sherlock opened his mouth, but John pointed a finger to shut him up. "If you want to treat me next time, you're absolutely welcome to, but this time is  _mine._ " Sherlock almost shivered at the way John said 'mine'.

"Alright. I'll have to go next door, however, to fetch clothing," Sherlock replied smoothly. John really didn't want him to go, Sherlock was warm and smelled like spice and lab chemicals and he liked it too much, but saying that aloud was another matter. He let him go, stalking quickly into his own bedroom to put on a nicer shirt and pants. Somehow, he didn't think Sherlock would care, which was completely true, but he had habits that were difficult to break.

Sherlock  _stiffly_  left 221B for 221C, mostly because John  _awakened_  things, without meaning to of course, and he'd rather not have those things interfere with, add another variable so to speak, to his already marred experiment. He flipped through various items hanging in his closet to find something, anything, that would come close to matching everything John was  _without meaning to of course._

He finally came up with a deep emerald green button-up that made his eyes look green as well. He hated how dull they were, colorless, you couldn't name what they really were, and that infuriated him. John couldn't be truly named either, but he was far from dull, so it was alright. Sherlock carefully slipped the shirt on, noting the tightness in the chest, and a neat suit jacket. He ran a hand through his curls in front of the only mirror in his sparsely furnished flat. Acceptable, not good enough, but John seemed to irrationally like him.

Irrational was a term Sherlock used much more than he should for  _this,_  whatever it was, and he knew that wouldn't change.

He stood, fidgeting, near the doorframe of 221B once he was sure John was ready. The door opened so slowly, but it was worth it. John looked...Sherlock didn't have the words. "Hi," the other man said. "Shall we?"

"Yes. That would be marvelous." And Sherlock meant it.

Once they were settled in a cab, John took Sherlock's hand. He knew the detective was bad at feelings, no one had to tell him, so he wanted to let Sherlock know it was okay. Sherlock had an ally in John, whether he knew or not.

The ride took a long time, and yet not enough time, and the two were dropped off in front of a red restaurant awning. "This is one of my favorite places to eat," Sherlock said, "when I actually feel like eating, which is rare."

John smiled. "Thanks for sharing that with me." Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that, so he stayed silent until Angelo noticed them.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the large man said boisterously. "How've you been? Clear any names lately?"

Sherlock looked vaguely uncomfortable with the friendliness, but replied, "Some. This is John Watson, my..." He wasn't sure how to put it.

John grinned widely and took over, holding out his other hand, the one that wasn't holding Sherlock's. "Boyfriend. Great to meet you." Angelo shook John's hand firmly. John decided he liked this man, and he was glad it was him that was overseeing their first date.

"Finally admitting it, are we?" Angelo beamed. "Someone recently vacated that table over that way. I'll be back with menus." He strolled away happily, but John was confused, and Sherlock went white. They both attempted to ignore that as they walked over to the table Angelo had pointed out. They soon settled there, still neither one of them letting go of the other's hand. It's like a pact, John thought, like a promise I'll stay with him. It is like a string connecting us, Sherlock thought, like one of the almost-telephones that are made with yarn and two plastic cups, like I can always reach him.

In a way, both of them were right. It was a connection, a bond, a don't-let-go-of-me-even-if-you-want-to. Sherlock knew that kind of feeling too painfully, and John did also, but it stayed below the surface.

John and Sherlock got to talking after ordering and waiting for a little while longer than the impatient detective could stand. "So, what happened to all your attempts at dating?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.

John laughed. "I don't know. Relationships just kept failing and failing, and I realized I didn't love them like I thought I did, and someone chased them all off as well, so I guess the whole dating thing just exploded in my face. What about you, Mr. Cheekbones?"

"Molly Hooper fancied me once, but I messed that up too badly for it to be fixed now," Sherlock answered, and there was something sad in his eyes. "I'm not good with emotions, so I probably couldn't have fixed it even if I wanted to. Lots of people have said I was good-looking, or handsome, but then I deduced them and they scarcely looked back. I don't even know what they wanted from me."

John glanced at his other features for a second. "They were right about one thing." Sherlock tilted his head in incomprehension. "You are incredibly good-looking and handsome." The genius, being him, didn't quite understand that at first, but when he did, his entire face flushed deep red.

"Your face and shirt are like Christmas," John said, laughing.

"I reject that on the grounds of it being a ridiculous analogy." Sherlock's face didn't get any lighter, however. John was still smiling; Sherlock was just...amazing and brilliant, and there wasn't anything in John's mind telling him to stop.

After Sherlock had cooled down a little and John had almost succeeded in schooling his expression into something vaguely appropriate, the food arrived. "Here you are, men," Angelo said. "Enjoy." He winked at John before heading back into the kitchen. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, but John wouldn't explain that.

Sherlock exaggeratedly ate his entrée, making sure John noticed the effort he was making. In fact, it wasn't that difficult for Sherlock, but he didn't like worrying John, and by the approving looks John was giving him, he had the upper hand. Never had Sherlock Holmes had the urge to eat, but now he did, and there weren't any cases to concentrate on, so he could indulge just this once. Dating was a give and take, wasn't it?

The two of them talked about everything, anything, John's time in the army, Sherlock's drug use, John's shoulder, Sherlock's first job at the Yard, John's childhood, Sherlock's childhood. On the surface, it looked like a blind date, but if you really looked close, you could see  _something_ sparking between them. Not that either would admit it, aloud or to themselves.

"Why me?" John asked suddenly.

"Why you what?"

John took a breath. "Why did you want me for this experiment? Before, you said you had very few people to ask, but you didn't know me really, and you had far more people to attempt this with than you think. Molly Hooper is an example." Sherlock winced almost imperceptibly, but John caught it. "You aren't very gay, I can see that in the way you look at others, and yet you chose a man for this, in addition, a man that you deduced isn't gay either. Sherlock, you're too smart to just pick me using that. So why did you do it?"

Sherlock knew he had to answer John. He knew it, but he wanted to evade it. "You...I told you he was like you." John nodded. "He...he was the only person I could call my friend. He just attached himself where I didn't want him at first, and then I did, and I never wanted him to leave like all the others had, and I realized something that I tried to get rid of, but found I couldn't."

"This friend," John said quietly, "you loved him."

Sherlock made an almost choking noise. "I did. And you, you are like him in so many ways. You worry about me, you love the danger, you let me in so easily. In my mind, you are exactly the same as him, even though logic tells me that's not so. Plus, you have the advantage of proximity." He broke off. "I don't know what isn't right to say, but I'm using you because I want you to replace him, to be my carbon copy, to keep me alive until I can survive on my own. It's survival of the fittest, and my mind and emotions were far from fit without him. So, I'm...sorry. If you want to go now, you can." He curled in on himself, rocking back and forth.

John stared at Sherlock for a few minutes. Sherlock wasn't going to say anything else, because he honestly believed John would leave him. He  _honestly believed it._  John stood up and took small steps toward the detective, dragging his chair along with him. Even when they were side by side, Sherlock still wouldn't look at him. John sat back down, carefully reached out his hand, as if he was trying not to scare an already frightened animal, and brushed the hair away from his forehead. "How could you think I'd ever leave? I like you too much to even consider that."

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look. "That's not the correct thing to do."

John laughed lightly. "I'll determine for myself what the right thing to do is, and currently it is this." He paused before moving forward completely, and kissed Sherlock.

Now, Sherlock was the most confused human being on the planet right about then. His brain felt like it had been short-circuited. He only remembered later what it felt like, but still couldn't interpret it. John had kissed him. There was no interpreting that.

"That's what people do when their partner is upset," John said in a teacher-like, teasing voice. Sherlock immediately felt warm hearing it. "That and hugging." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock finally reacted by shifting his arms out from John's embrace and wrapping them around John's shoulders.

"I feel better," Sherlock whispered.

"Good," John replied. He stood up again, taking Sherlock's hand. "I already handed Angelo the money, so we can go back to the flat now." Sherlock nodded, following. "Thank you, Angelo!" John shouted. Angelo shouted something incomprehensible back.

The two men walked out of the restaurant hand in hand, just as they had come in. They made quite the pair, the short, blond man and the tall, curly-haired man.

As they walked into 221B, they noticed Harry had come home. "Find her?" John asked.

Harry shook her head. "I think Clara moved to get away from me. That's why she's never there."

"You'll find her, I know it," John said firmly. Sherlock knew subconsciously that John really thought so.

"Harriet, there is a great chance of you finding Clara. Her habits obviously include visiting this market, therefore, according to statistical probability, an encounter is far more likely to happen than not, so..." Harry had jumped up to hug him.

"Thank you, psycho smart guy!" Sherlock gave John a sort of 'help me' glance, but John just grinned. Harry hadn't been this hopeful in months.

"Alright, let my boyfriend go," John said good-naturedly after a few seconds. Harry smirked and did so, plopping on the couch and seeming to fall asleep right then and there. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, and John squeezed his hand.

"I like it when you do that," Sherlock remarked as they were getting ready for bed themselves.

"When I do what?" John's voice was difficult to hear, mostly because of the toothbrush in his mouth.

"I like when you hold my hand." Once John finished brushing his teeth, he came into the bedroom again.

"I'm glad." Those were the last words either man spoke that night.

* * *

_He remembered fear, deadly fear. "I can hear it, I can hear it, it's so loud and so close."_

_"John, it'll be okay, just keep talking." John did as he asked._

_"I'm in a cage, I shut myself in here, but I don't know how long it'll last before the hound gets me."_

_"John, I'm coming." He paused. "Stay there. You will be okay, I promise." And that promise was so human, and John trusted him so much._

_"I'm staying."_

_"I'm coming."_

Of course, the dream didn't last long in John's mind before it faded into nothing.


	5. 13:00

Sherlock sprawled himself across the couch. "John, I want my violin."

John wasn't actually in the room, but Sherlock didn't feel like getting up to find him. "John! I want my violin!" he shouted.

"Why the hell can't it wait?" John yelled back from the bathroom. So John was taking a shower. Maybe the urge to go back to the warm shower would get Sherlock what he wanted.

"I feel the need to compose. If I don't get the instrument, all the music will be gone." Sherlock heard John sigh loudly. "I'll play it for you when I'm done. I promise."

Sherlock didn't expect John to come out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. "Is that a proper motivator, darling?" John asked. His arms were folded, but Sherlock could see how muscular he was, and the scar on his shoulder was fully visible. John looked good, really good, in fact, so good that Sherlock had to grab onto the couch cushions to keep himself from falling off.

"Yes." Sherlock couldn't say much more than that. John looked him over. The detective was obviously shaken, and John let a mischievous grin spread over his face as he realized why.

"Well, I don't think it is," John said, moving closer to sit on the couch next to him.

Sherlock was getting pretty caught up in all of this. He just wanted his violin earlier, he didn't know that John would do  _this._  He mentally cursed. He just  _had_ to get himself into it. "I assure you," Sherlock replied, voice becoming hoarser, "my playing is unrivaled by most, including my brother."

John laid down so that they were touching all down one side. He was enjoying this very much. "Are you sure about that?" Sherlock shivered. God, why did John have to get so close? He resisted the urge to smell the cinnamon shampoo from John's shower.

"Of course," Sherlock tried to scoff, but it came out as more of a stutter. John leaned in and kissed him hard, shutting down any other things he could have said. He knew John was a good kisser, but this was bordering on amazing. His hands came up to pull John on top of him, then to run over the doctor's exposed back. John had his fingers tugging through Sherlock's hair and his mouth explored the detective's.

When the two finally pulled apart, both were breathing heavily, and John's towel had slipped down just barely. "I didn't have that in mind when I yelled for you," Sherlock said, taking mental notes of John's body on his.

"I could tell," John answered, a smirk dusting his features. He stood up. "Now, I need to get dressed. If you want your violin, you should grab it now. The music will be gone if you don't." Sherlock tried to disguise how fast he left the flat to find it.

John laughed as he headed back to the bedroom. That was fun. He loved kissing Sherlock, it was one of the real perks to being his 'boyfriend'. John knew that once Sherlock was okay, he'd leave, and this whole thing would be over, but John still enjoyed spending time with him. Especially teasing him. It was also nice to kiss someone after all this time. His last girlfriend had been...months? A year? Whatever, it was better with Sherlock anyway. Sherlock was different.

Sherlock paced in the sitting room, violin case in hand. He never thought John would make the relationship so real. The kisses and the touching and how on earth did that man do it? Sherlock didn't think it would get this far. He meant the experiment to be temporary, until John got tired of him, but that hadn't happened. John  _stayed._

Once John came back out of the shared bedroom he found Sherlock standing facing the windows, violin in hand, bow in the other. As soon as Sherlock heard the other man's footsteps, he began to play. John immediately stopped in his tracks.

The melody was  _gorgeous_ , soaring and ecstatically happy at first. It was like someone finding love and holding onto every moment of it. However, the song twisted into something darker, like fear and paranoia. It consumed the melody until that was all you could hear. The music rose louder and louder until a soft sound of falling. Sherlock knew it was called a glissando, but John didn't. The music started again, a sad, broken tune that wove its way through the sitting room. Notes traveled in an up-and-down of heartbreak. Eventually, John couldn't take any more. He went over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind, laying his head on Sherlock's back.

The song rose a bit higher to a more hopeful tone, the notes winding about their heads like birds, and when the music rose even higher, John felt he could taste it. With a final crescendo, the melody faded out. Sherlock didn't turn around, didn't put his violin down. "Is it good?" he asked shyly, if that was even possible for him.

"Sherlock." John gently touched his lips to the top of Sherlock's spine. "Why didn't you tell me about that?"

"I forgot about it."

"I won't." The two swayed back and forth slightly, neither willing to move from the incredibly comforting position.

After a while, no one knew how long, Sherlock said, "You know, when I wrote the first part of that, I was thinking when I died, it was pointless to include the years on my gravestone that I didn't know him. It made perfect sense, since I hadn't been really living while he wasn't there."

* * *

_He stared at the dark, marble-looking surface in front of him. There wasn't an epitaph, and John knew no one would have been able to think of one, least of all him. "One more miracle, for me. Please...don't...don't be dead. Can you please do that for me?"_

_The grave marker gave no indication that John had said anything. The scenery didn't budge. John jerked his head up and left the cemetery, not sure where he was going._

* * *

Alright, that was not good right now. "Has your opinion changed?" John asked quietly, ignoring what had just happened, whatever it had been.

Sherlock put his violin down on the small table next to him, and turned in John's arms. He looked John straight in the eyes, entrancing him with his ever-changing orbs. "No. But now that you're here, the numbers on the inscription have been going up every day."

John sighed. "I'm glad. I want you to be alive as long as you can." He buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder, breathing him in. "The song was beautiful."

The two men stayed there, completely occupied, for about ten more minutes, until the sound of clomping feet echoed from the stairwell. Harry barged in not long after they heard it, cursing and huffing, several bags of groceries arranged on her wrists and hands. "What have you blokes been doing while I was gone?" she asked.

"Nothing really," John replied coolly.

Harry rolled her eyes. "Alright, if you want to be cryptic about it." She paused. "Can either of you help with the bags?" Much to the surprise of the siblings, Sherlock was the first to get to her. Sherlock took three bags and strode into the kitchen. He began to put things in the cupboards absentmindedly. John noticed that although the detective hadn't spent much time in the flat, eating at least, he knew exactly where everything went.

Of course, Sherlock did know where everything went, so he found it pointless to ask John and pretend he didn't.

"Harry, did you have any luck finding Clara?" John asked, having decided not to think about his boyfriend and the way his back curved as he reached up to put some biscuits in a high place.

"Obviously, she didn't." Sherlock didn't look at them as he said it.

"How do you know?" Harry asked indignantly.

"Your gait, your insistence we help you with the bags, not one, but three bottles of beer, the lines in your face. Shall I go on?" Harry huffed and dropped the other bags, heading down the stairs to plead pity from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock assumed. John let out a small breath and picked up half of the remaining groceries, setting them on the counter next to where Sherlock had finished storing the food.

"How did you know?" John turned to Sherlock.

"I just explained it," he replied exasperatedly.

John shook his head. "No, not that. I meant how did you know where the items went."

Sherlock gave John a glance-over. He nodded approvingly. John wouldn't know that Sherlock couldn't tell him. "You know I'm quite observant."

John had a suspicion that Sherlock wasn't telling the truth, contrary to what the genius thought. Sherlock always got a tiny line dented into his forehead when he lied. But why would he lie about something like that? It confused John, and he furrowed his brow, thinking. Sherlock saw that, and kissed him gently on the spot. He wasn't used to being able to kiss John whenever he wanted, so it still felt a little bit awkward.

John smiled when he saw Sherlock's eyes closed as the other man pressed his lips to his forehead. The white lie was easily forgiven. John didn't want to lose the detective over something as stupid as the cupboards.

When Sherlock pulled away, he noticed the grin on John's face, and knew whatever was bothering him had passed. He sighed. "How about we put the rest of this away, darling?" John ran a finger over Sherlock's jaw. "Then we can curl up on the couch and I can tell you a story."

"What kind of story?"

John tilted Sherlock's chin forward to lightly kiss him. "A story about the Empire and the Rebels, and a galaxy far, far away."

Sherlock smirked. "I am aware this is an attempt to introduce me to pop culture."

"This is the best part of pop culture," John said. "You should know it."

"I don't know many things that do not benefit me, such as the solar system."

John's mouth fell open. "How is it possible that the great Sherlock Holmes has no knowledge of the cosmos?"

"It has been beneficial to know exactly once, and I solved the case in ten seconds without that information." Sherlock's face shut down slightly with the memory of that particular case.

* * *

_"Ten..."_

_"Oh my God, it's a child," John said. The man in front of him had his hands twisted painfully through his hair._

_"Nine..."_

_"I know what it is, I can see it." The other man paced restlessly._

_"Eight..."_

_"Any time now, that little girl on the other end of the phone is going to be blown to bits!" John shouted._

_"Six..."_

_"Jesus, the numbers are moving faster."_

_"Shut up, I need time to think!"_

_"You don't have time!"_

_"Three..."_

_"Go!"_

_"One..." The girl's voice was choked with tears._

_"The Supernova!" the other man shouted into the speakerphone._

* * *

John shuddered. That was an ugly feeling, knowing that he was so close, but everything was out of his hands. "Are you okay?" Sherlock asked worriedly.

"Yes, darling." John rearranged himself to hold Sherlock to him. He needed a hug right about then. "Instead of my earlier plan, I'm going to tell you who and what all the constellations are."

"What do you mean 'who'?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"There might be more people in the sky than animals, at least in the Greek versions of the stories. But since those are the ones that are the most well-known, I'll tell them."

Sherlock looked at John fondly. How had John managed to wrap him around his little finger? "That sounds lovely." He paused. "As long as you hold me the whole time."

John smirked again. "And you used to call yourself a high-functioning sociopath."

Sherlock noted the words 'used to'. It was true; he hadn't thought of himself as a sociopath since...a long time ago. And he was finding he didn't miss the term. Everything made more sense without the explanation of sociopathic tendencies. Sociopaths didn't understand nor want to be a part of human interaction, but Sherlock  _did._  Too much, and too painfully, he understood it and wanted it. Damn.

"Yes, I did." Sherlock walked over to sit back on the couch. John followed, and soon, they both were wrapped in each other's warmth.

"Now, would you like to hear the one about Orion, or Andromeda?"

"Andromeda."

"Well, then I'll have to start with Poseidon and Medusa and Perseus then. Are you sure you want to hear it now?"

"I would listen to anything you say," Sherlock answered. "Start from the beginning."

* * *

_Sherlock's dream bolted through his consciousness like the cocaine once had. The sky was barely light, the ground too far and the consequences too bleak. A voice taunted him from behind, the high voice of someone that wanted him dead. Yet, all this registered later. What he was thinking about was another voice, deeper, more calm and more welcome, but cutting in that one instant._

"You machine."

_Sherlock winced, shutting his eyes. This was all for a purpose. Soon, everything would be back to normal. Of course, Sherlock had always been very good at lying to himself when his brother didn't come home for nights on end, and when the cocaine wasn't enough, and when he'd been called Freak again._

He will forgive me.  _This one lie should have been as easy to swallow as all the others, but it wasn't._

It will be alright.  _The distance covered up the tears, and he drowned in them while he still could. He held his mobile in front of him, tapping the number that had been called and texted to countless times. It began to ring._ I'm sorry.

_"Yes? Sherlock, where are you?"_

_"Get out of the cab and look up. I'm closer than you think."_

_The man on the ground did as Sherlock asked. "What the hell are you doing up there?" Sherlock knew then that what he replied would have to be lies as well._ I can't tell you.


	6. 22:00

"Jooohhhnnnn," Sherlock whined.

"Sherlock."

"I'm boooorrrrreeeddd."

John huffed. "Darling, there's nothing I can do about it. Unless I go out and kill a man, which you'd immediately figure out, you're stuck here." Sherlock rolled his eyes. The use of the word 'darling' made him tingly and warm, but it couldn't occupy him for very long.

"So, what can we do that's interesting here?" he asked, not relaying any sort of answer to that question.

At that moment, Harriet decided to walk in. "Hey sexy, can you hand me that other bottle over thataways?" She gestured to Sherlock, who looked horrified.

"Ah, no. Harry, I'm going to confiscate all the other bottles of beer. You're going cold turkey, as is Sherlock." John stomped into the kitchen to take the remaining two glass bottles from the refrigerator.

"What are you going to do with them?" Harriet asked, a hand on her hip.

John did something entirely unexpected right then. He walked up to Sherlock and handed him one. "Sherlock and I are going to play a drinking game. And since Sherlock is bored, it will be beneficial for everyone."

"I've never played a drinking game in my life," Sherlock pointed out.

"So?"

"I don't know the rules. Can the victim kill themselves?"

John sighed. "Sherlock, this isn't Cluedo."

"Aw." Sherlock had the puppy look in his eyes that he knew John had a hard time resisting.

"We will never play that game again as long as I live." John's voice was the no-nonsense soldier one. Damn.

"Alright. We'll play. How do we do this?"

"So, we take one swig and each answer a question from the other. The one that can't answer after the least swigs loses."

"Simple enough." John came over with a cap-popper and took the beer from Sherlock, taking off the cap and giving it back to him. He did the same with his own.

"First swig." John clinked his bottle against Sherlock's own, Sherlock immediately alert. This game had some very intriguing potential. If John got drunk first, which had a great chance of happening, he could get out of him whether or not John had fallen in love with him. It had been weighing on his mind recently, since John  _kissed him,_  and  _held him,_  and knew more about him than any single other person on the planet including his brother. Was that love, or friendship, or something as of yet unnamed? It scared him that originally he hadn't meant for this sort of confusion to come about. Just an experiment, he kept reassuring himself. But it wasn't.

John was something completely different, something he'd never seen before. Didn't it make sense to find out what the doctor felt about him?

Sherlock took a small bit of the amber liquid into his mouth and flinched as it burned down his throat. John looked unaffected, but Sherlock assumed it was because he'd done this many times. "First question, what is your full name?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. And yours?"

"John Hamish Watson." Sherlock choked down a laugh, but that was easy since he felt like choking already with that infernal substance called 'beer'.

"Good. Glad that's over," John muttered. "Second swig." This draught was bigger, Sherlock attempting to adjust himself faster to the feeling of the stuff. A light buzz had started to come over him. Sherlock knew that wasn't normal, but he wanted to keep going until he got it out of John. It bothered him too much to wait.

"How about this? What's your favorite childhood memory?"

Sherlock didn't even need to think about that. "When I was seven, I had a dog named Redbeard. I loved him so much, because he always played with me when Mycroft couldn't. One day, he and I got lost on the manor grounds, and he led me home, wagging his tail and never leaving me by myself. Redbeard was devoted and kind and listened to me like no one else did at the time. Mycroft was a good brother then; he'd teach me everything from physics to biology to chemistry, which was my favorite. It was the last of the good days, the day when Redbeard and I got lost on the grounds. After that, Redbeard got put down and Mycroft went to college, and I was alone again."

John nodded. "My favorite memory is probably my twelfth birthday. Harry was eleven then, happy and not drunk. I came home from school to find my parents had prepared a surprise birthday party. There was chocolate cake and rocky road ice cream and all my mates were there. I felt loved and happy, and I got my first stethoscope that day. And the nicest girl that I'd had a crush on for ages had given me a watch. Of course, that was before my parents died and that nice girl cheated on me when I was seventeen." He laughed melodiously. Sherlock loved that laugh too much. "So, basically, our happiest times were before it all went wrong."

Sherlock laughed too. "Yes. We're men of danger and misfortune, if fortune exists."

"Of course it does. Fortune brought us together under the same roof, Sherlock. Fortune exists for that sole reason." John's smile was sweet, and it didn't exactly help Sherlock's buzz from the alcohol.

"Third swig," Sherlock said. John nodded again. They both upturned their drinks, taking the next gulp.

By this time, Sherlock was beginning to feel...not himself. Everything looked lighter, fuzzier, like someone had put a piece of dirty glass over his eyes. He couldn't see Harriet in his peripheral vision anymore. "I've got one," he said. Even his voice was sounding strange. "Who was your first kiss?"

John giggled like a schoolgirl. "The great Sherlock Holmes willingly asking a question about kissing? I've seen it all!"

"Just answer it," Sherlock snapped.

John didn't take any offense to his rudeness, because Sherlock had known for the past few weeks that was rude. "When I was fourteen, I knew this girl named Lynn. She was pretty and liked me, so she kissed me. Lynn had always been bolder than me. The problem was I had braces then, and I thought I would never get my first kiss while I had braces, so I ended scratching up her tongue. She thought that was horrible, and there ended my short relationship with Lynn." He paused. "Do you have a first kiss story?"

Sherlock bobbed his head up and down. "I do, as a matter of fact, have a first kiss story. There was this man named John, and our relationship was initiated by me. The kiss wasn't, though. He saw I was feeling rejected and see-through just...kissed me. I liked it more than I thought I would. Before then, I didn't understand what kissing what about, why people exchanged saliva whenever it struck their fancies. But I knew in that minute. He was everything in that moment, and I got it." He tried to reorient himself, having lost his place in the story. "There's my story. Another swig?" Sherlock gestured widely with the hand holding the beer.

John stared at Sherlock. He'd had no idea that was his first kiss. It explained a lot, like why Sherlock had been so cautious with the touching earlier, and the lack of knowledge about romance, and the innocence that didn't fit a consulting detective that had seen countless bodies. No one had loved Sherlock like he deserved. It made a bottomless pit feeling in his chest.

"Why not?" John replied instead of saying what he was thinking. Sherlock couldn't keep his alcohol very well, in fact, he kept it worse than John, which was strange, since John was a lightweight of a massive scale. He laughed aloud.

"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock looked hurt, and it melted John's already softened heart.

"Because you can't drink any better than I can."

"That's better than I thought it was."

"What did you think it was?" John's fuzzy mind struggled forming the question.

"I thought you were laughing at me for telling that story."

"Oh, darling, no. It's that you and I are both severe lightweights, and that's funny."

Sherlock brightened quite a bit. "Oh. Alright then. Swig?"

"Yep!" Both men drank again, on their fourth swig. Harry, who was paying a little bit of attention to her brother and his boyfriend, thought the whole thing was extremely hilarious. Two men with no ability to drink were playing a drinking game, and telling each other facts about one another. Soon, Sherlock would finally admit he was a virgin, and the two would shag right on the couch. And Johnny would pound him so that he was sore for a week. Not that she wanted to imagine it, but it was still funny to think about.

Sherlock was reeling from the last swig. "So. Do you have any questions in mind?"

John could barely think, much less form a coherent question. "Er...no."

"Neither do I." Nobody spoke for a while, Sherlock and John both trying not to slip under the influence completely.

"Who was your first love?" Sherlock asked suddenly, voice sounding more lucid than it had since the game started.

John smiled bitterly. "Her name was Grace. Beautiful, kind, perfect. I would have given her anything if she asked for it. Of course, she asked for everything. Grace slowly cut her way into my heart and then left it in small red slices when she said, 'You're a pushover and too easy'. So there was the crushed part of crushes. I couldn't stay with anyone for very long after that."

"Why is no one's first love happy? Why can no one be happy with their first chance?" Sherlock wondered.

"I don't know," John answered, moving next to Sherlock and placing his head on his shoulder. "I really don't know."

"Does that mean my first love will be unhappy as well?" Sherlock looked so young right then.

"What do you mean 'will be'? Have you had your first love yet?" John thought surely Sherlock had had  _one_ person. But to have had none? It was so much better to have loved and lost than never loved at all, and Sherlock didn't. Before John could apologize for that, even though it wasn't at all his fault, Sherlock spoke again.

"My first love is going on right now. I don't...want it to be unhappy." John's heart broke right then, just looking at Sherlock's face.

"Who is it?" John knew it couldn't be him, it was the mysterious man that Sherlock hadn't named yet. But wasn't it over, since Sherlock was trying to recover?

"You'll laugh at me."

"I promise I won't."

Sherlock didn't look convinced, but he said it anyway. "I'm in love with John Watson. You know him, don't you?"

This was when John realized Sherlock didn't recognize him anymore. "Yeah, I know him."

"I thought so. You'd like him, Mycroft." In what world, John's blurry mind thought, do I look anything like the picture he showed me of Mycroft?

"Really?"

"Of course. He's smart, and loves danger, and has kept up this whole charade that we're dating just to make me happy. He goes on cases with me and actually  _helps._  I love him so much. Mycroft, you should really meet him."

"I already have," John said, even though he'd never met Mycroft. He fully expected to be kidnapped by the politician, but he hadn't yet.

"Then you understand," Sherlock said excitedly. God, John wanted to sob. Why did this have to happen now, when they both were drunk and not understanding what was happening? Even John was losing what little sense he had left.

"Yes," John murmured. Tears were beginning to form in his eyes, but he was already forgetting why they were there.

"Good." Sherlock sounded so satisfied with himself.

"Now, we both need to sleep," John whispered. "I can barely keep my eyes open."

"John always says eight hours of sleep is what adults need. I should appease him." Sherlock laid down on the couch, pulling John down with him.

"Yes, we both should." John's mind silently faded out with the scene. "Goodnight, Sherlock." But Sherlock was asleep.

Harry took the beer bottles from their hands once she was sure both were out like lights. She finished them off with a sigh. How did her brother get into such a mess?

* * *

_Sherlock's head hurt very bad. He'd seen that hound on the moors, and he knew it wasn't real, but it was_ too real.  _He was scared, and he hated it. He'd been scared for a while now, but once he saw him, it went into the background._

_"UMQRA. Mean anything to you?" he asked._

_"No." But his face, with its furrowed brow coming from concentration, meant more than he knew at the time. "What if hound isn't a word but a set of letters?" Sherlock could deal with something that wasn't a real word, like fear. Only letters, but the man in front of him's name wasn't just letters. It was the most important thing in the world to Sherlock._

_"We have to break into Baskerville again." The smile that broke on Sherlock's face was so genuine that he almost couldn't believe it. There was something unnameable here. Something exceptionally amazing._


	7. 01:00

_"What would you like me to make him say next?" The voice was choked and scared, and Sherlock was at a loss. It wasn't betrayal, but it hurt almost as much. In a different way of course, but the magnitude stayed at that height._

_Time skipped suddenly. Sherlock knew he'd said things, and the other man replied, and eventually the puppet master came out to play. But recalling the events, even now, was difficult. There were red lights, warnings. A madman's laughter. Soon a gun loaded, the owner held it out to the puppet master, and the master walked away. Sherlock's heart, something he wasn't entirely sure he'd had, pounded loudly in his ears. He ran forward to free the other man, who had been covered in a Semtex-laced jacket. The bomb laid by the side of the pool conspicuously, but if you didn't already know what it was you couldn't have told. "Are you alright?" he asked desperately, but no one with an untrained ear could have understood it._

_"I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm okay," the other man reassured. He could hear the desperate tone to Sherlock's voice, and put a hand on his shoulder, thinking it would be fine just this once._

_"Good." Sherlock said it as a puff of air._

_The other man grinned. "You know, you just removed my clothes in a public place. People will talk."_

_Sherlock immediately felt the pain dissipate. "People will talk no matter what we do." The two men began to walk out of the pool area, Sherlock wondering how they'd gotten away so easily, and the other thanking God and Sherlock that he'd been rescued. However, they didn't get very far._

_"Sorry, boys! I'm sooooo changeable!" The red lights flashed on again, trained on Sherlock's partner, multiplying as their master called them. The gun came back out; the safety clicked off. Pointed at the madman._

_"You'd best not be doing that," the puppet master scolded. Sherlock had red lights of his own now, promises rather than warnings. He hoped, something he'd done very little, that the master would target him rather than the shorter man standing next to him. Sherlock wouldn't be able to bear it if one more thing he loved died._

_"You'd best back away from him."_

_"Ooh, so you do have a heart," the puppet master giggled. "Didn't I tell you? Perhaps I didn't. I will burn the heart out of you. Then it will just be you and I, dear. No pesky hearts to keep you from playing with me!"_

_Sherlock pointed his gun at the madman. "Or the game ends right here."_

_The madman giggled again. "You forget who has the power, darling." Sherlock shivered. The term sounded repulsive coming from the puppet master. The madman didn't care about anyone. Sherlock almost forgot what he had said._

_"What sort of power do you have?" Sherlock scoffed._

_The puppet master grinned. "I have your heart in my hands." Sherlock's expression briefly dropped as he turned to look at the other man._

_There wasn't any sort of gunshot, no sound to alert that something was horribly wrong. But, the other man, the heart of Sherlock Holmes, fell to the ground, dead._

_"Nononononononono," Sherlock whispered, much past the logical setting his mind was so commonly on._

_"I killed him," the madman said. "Now we can play." Sherlock let out a scream, an inhuman, broken sound._

* * *

John jerked awake when he heard Sherlock scream. "Darling, wake up." Sherlock didn't respond, and kept screaming, but the screaming made words.

"DON'T LEAVE ME! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!"

"Sherlock, wake up! You're dreaming!" John shook the detective none too gently. He knew what nightmares were like, and would have given anything to have someone there with him when they happened.

Soon Sherlock's silver eyes opened, staring at the ceiling. He didn't speak, and John didn't either for the first few moments. "What did you dream about?" he whispered.

Sherlock didn't answer for a while. "Please, Sherlock. I need to know."

"Why?" the genius retorted, a bitter tone to his voice. "Nothing about my dream will affect you."

John shook his head in disbelief. "You can't possibly think that."

"Obviously I do, otherwise I wouldn't have said it."

"Sherlock Holmes, I am your boyfriend. I care about you and everything surrounding you."

Sherlock huffed, but John knew there was something behind it. "You shouldn't."

"I do." If Sherlock didn't want to think that John didn't care about him, he was welcome to, but John wanted Sherlock to know it. Sherlock was very important to John, and that would never change. "Darling, if something is hurting you, I want to help."

The silence was getting a bit old, but John knew better than to say anything. The situation was delicate. Knowing Sherlock, it was more than delicate, it was probably destructive.

"I..." John waited. "It was a memory."

"That happens a lot."

"I went to a pool once. A pool a boy named Carl Powers was drowned in. Someone had wanted me to meet there. Incidentally, the killer of Carl. He wanted something from me, and he took someone to convince me to cooperate."

"Who did the man take?" John's voice dropped even lower.

" _Him,_ " Sherlock replied.

"Oh." The word was barely a breath.

"Strapped a bomb to him, made him say things. We got away, I thought. That's what really happened. We got away at the real end. But in this one, he...was...shot."

"Oh Sherlock." John wrapped his arms around the detective's waist. "I'm so sorry."

"Why do people always feel the need to apologize for things that aren't under their control?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Empathy. Or we're sorry we can't help." John nestled his head into Sherlock's chest.

"But you are." He looked up to Sherlock's face in surprise. Darkness shrouded the walls, but a single beam of streetlamp light threw his features into a sort of impressionist relief. Still beautiful, John thought.

"How am I helping?" John wondered.

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, surprising him again. The genius didn't start things like this. "By being you. You are amazing."

John could feel himself blush. "Hey, I'm supposed to be comforting you here. None of this complement business."

Sherlock smirked. "I enjoy that expression on you. It makes me feel...I think people call it fondness."

"That's good. I'm happy you're better." John carefully pressed his lips to the small part of Sherlock's neck made visible by the sleep shirt. "Now, we should try to go back to sleep. It'll be okay." Sherlock nodded drowsily and muttered something about sleep being overrated, but John didn't listen, and drifted back off.

* * *

_The man John was looking for had ended up on a roof. How that happened, John had no idea, and didn't want to discuss it. He just wanted the man to come down so he could be safe. But something was wrong. "John, stop right there! Don't move!"_

_"Alright." John held up his hands. "Alright."_

_"Since I obviously can't come down, we'll have to do it like this."_

_"Do what?" John questioned._

_"Ah..." The man broke off, and John thought he could hear tears marring his voice. "This phone call...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

_"When what? That's what people do when what?" The desperation leaked into John's tone. He wanted the man to hear it. The man didn't do anything when asked, but he listened to John sometimes._

_"Goodbye, John."_

_"No. NO!" The man dropped his phone without ending the call and stepped off the roof. John ran forward, trying not to see what was happening, just trying to get to the front of the building before he hit the ground. But, of course the images burned into his mind. The wind, the coat flapping around his thin body, the flashes of cold and black and glass and RED._

* * *

John quickly sat up in bed, heart beating too fast. "What is it, John?" Sherlock asked, looking concerned. That was unusual, but John didn't really care right about then.

"Bad dream."

"You as well? I'm sorry."

John let out half a laugh. "Is it empathy or not being able to help?"

"Empathy." Sherlock leaned down and pecked him on the lips. "Do you remember the dream?"

John reached back into his memory, but he could feel the lucid feeling fuzzing away. "No. Someone died. And there was a rooftop, and it was cold. But I can't recall anything else."

Sherlock nodded, pressing a gentle kiss to John's forehead. "This person that died. Did you know them?"

"Too well. I think I loved them, but in a dream you can't really tell."

"Mhm." The noise was kind of adorable coming from Sherlock, and John smiled, closing his eyes. But then a thought disturbed his falling asleep.

"Darling?"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember what happened the night before last?"

He could almost hear the gears in Sherlock's mind turning. "No. I know we drank alcohol, but after the first sip everything is blurry." Sherlock sounded a bit infuriated, like the alcohol wasn't supposed to do anything that would inhibit him.

John was torn between relief and anxiety when he heard. Relief that their relationship wouldn't become awkward, in which case Sherlock would leave and it would hurt very much. Anxiety because now he wasn't sure what to do. Sherlock loved him, and John was scared he would do something wrong.

"That's alright," John whispered. "Forget I said anything. Neither of us have had a very restful night, so we should get as much sleep as we can."

"Yes." John laid back down, curling close to the detective. Everything would make more sense in the morning, when the light was consistent and Harry was banging around the flat. Sherlock felt him fall asleep.

The genius stayed awake for a little while, not being used to all this sleep. Three hours kept him going well enough, and this was beyond what he'd originally hoped for in the (he hated calling it) experiment, but sometimes he needed to think in the dark, with no distractions.

What had happened when he and John played the drinking game? Sherlock wracked his brain, but the thing couldn't bring any recollections back. It frustrated him to no end!

He floated through his mind palace for a long time, flitting from memory to memory, searching for words that could help speed up the remembrance. Suddenly, Sherlock heard it. 'Who was your first love?'

'My first love is going on right now.' Sherlock flinched at how open his voice was.

'Who is it?'

'His name is John. Have you met him?'

God, how could he have been so stupid? This exceeded even Anderson's level of idiocy! What if...John didn't love him back? It was possible; Sherlock had come up with this whole experiment (wince) and dragged him into it, there was no reason why John would feel anything for him other than perhaps friendship, and even that was a 'long shot' as people said. John had no reason to love a consulting detective who had hurt the one thing that mattered.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, but forgot that John was asleep beside him. John shifted on the bed, turning more towards Sherlock. He didn't move until he was sure John was still asleep.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. And this time, it was an apology that he couldn't fix anything. "So very sorry, John."


	8. 10:00

Harry tended to know when people were in love. It was a talent of some sort, but she didn't think it had much use until she met Clara. Suddenly, she read her signs like an astrologer read their stars, hoping for one of them to tell her something.

Clara was  _beautiful._  There was no doubt about it. The second Harry saw her, she melted. Clara had wavy blonde hair that always got in her eyes, which were a lovely chocolate brown. Harry blearily thought a goddess like Clara didn't belong in such a normal, ordinary grocery store. Of course, Harry didn't know Clara's name then, having just run into her.

"I'm so sorry," elegantly slipped from Clara's mouth as she hurried to pick up the dropped items and place them back in Harry's basket. Harry was struck speechless. As soon as she could move her lips (several moments after the goddess had said anything) she stammered, "No, it's my fault."

"Why would it be your fault?" Clara had a smile on her face. What did that mean? Platonic or flirty? Er...

"Because I was staring at you, so I wasn't paying attention to where I was going," Harry blurted. The minute she realized what she just revealed, Harry covered her mouth with her hand and flushed. There went her one chance. Where had her usual blunt humor gone? How was she even supposed to talk to that vision?

"Really?" Clara bit her lip delicately. Harry felt like a humongous bear in comparison to a hummingbird.

"Yeah. You're very pretty." God, did Harry have less of a filter than usual? How did this day come?

"Thank you. That's nice of you to say." Clara paused. Harry wondered for a moment how she even knew Clara's name, but then remembered the goddess wore a nametag. She wanted to slap herself for being so stupid, but that would look really dumb in front of Clara. "Do you want to go out sometime?"

Wait, what?

"What did you ask?" Harry managed to say.

Clara blushed. "It's okay if you don't want to, I just haven't gone on a date in a while and I've seen you around and you seem nice, so..."

"Yes."

"What?" Clara looked surprised.

"Yes, I would like to go on a date with you."

Clara smiled again. "Thank you. That would be lovely. It can be only one date if you want."

"Let's see how it goes first." Harry smiled back, shyly she was sure, but it didn't matter. She was on top of the world.

* * *

"So, wait," Johnny said. Harry couldn't see his reaction over the phone, but she had a pretty good idea of what was going through his head. "You are going on basically a blind date with a woman you met at the supermarket because she asked you to."

"Yes, John. Haven't you been paying attention?"

Johnny sighed. "I hope you have a good time. You haven't been happy lately and I hope this makes you happy."

Harry's heart swelled. "You are an amazing big brother."

"Yes, yes. Now go have fun. Try not to drink very much."

"I will." John hung up, but Harry didn't move the phone from her ear.  _Johnny approved!_  It made her want to jump up and down.

And now, she had a date to plan for. Holy mother of all things good and gorgeous, Harry had no idea where to begin.

* * *

The first kiss happened three dates later. Harry was determined to take things slow, especially since she was completely in the dark about the whole  _love_ thing. It scared her; she was supposed to know by now whether the relationship would go anywhere. But she didn't.

Harry and Clara were standing across from each other in front of Clara's flat, Harry awkwardly shifting her weight between feet, Clara primly waiting with her feet together and one arm over her torso, holding onto the other arm. "Goodnight," Harry said, thankfully remembering eye contact.

Clara tilted her head to the side and smiled softly. "Goodnight, Harry." Harry nearly swooned right there at the sound of her name from Clara's lips.

"Goodnight," Harry repeated. She didn't want to leave; in fact, the thought of leaving hurt her chest.

Clara licked those perfect lips, just barely flicking her pink tongue over them. "Harry?"

"Yeah?" Harry didn't expect Clara to move closer, to unhook her arms from around her body, to place them on Harry's shoulders. Clara smelled amazing, like wildflowers that grew in allies or near street corners. Harry could see the glistening lipgloss coating Clara's mouth. Jesus, this was very much helping Harry's new urge to never leave this woman's side.

"I..." Clara ran a finger over Harry's cheekbone, "...want..." and tapped her nose, "...to..." and traced that finger over Harry's bottom lip. "...kiss you."

"And I...want to...kissyoutoo." Harry was surprised she managed to get it out.

"Lovely." Clara leaned in and pressed her cherry-glossed lips to Harry's. It was slippery and tasted  _unbearably sexy_  and Harry was beyond thinking by this point. Their bodies were getting closer together every second, but it only took a few for their bodies to meet.

Harriet Watson had absolutely no idea what happened after that. All she could remember was Clara waving goodbye.

* * *

The months slipped by. Harry and Clara moved in together, Johnny came around a few times, and eventually midget-like, pixie-cut brunette Harry Watson and petite, long-haired blonde Clara Peters were married. They were happy, but one thing had to happen.

Harry, who'd always struggled with alcohol, began drinking again.

She didn't even mean to; a glass of wine every once in a while turned into one per night, which turned into three a night, which turned into abandoning wine and turning to beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. On and on and on. Harry knew it was wrong, she knew it hurt her wife, she knew it made John angry and sad, she  _knew it._ But knowing and doing something about it were two different things. And Harry was hit with that difference every time she took a swig.

Knowing what she was doing was wrong added a impassible layer of depression to the whole experience. Harry would cradle a bottle close to her chest like it was Clara (like she knew the difference) and whisper how sorry she was, while her wife would go to sleep with tears on her cheeks, calling rehab places every week. But Harry never stayed for long, causing more depression and calling. A vicious circle. Eventually, it was too much.

"Harriet, are you going to come to bed?"

Harry looked up from her spot on the couch. She hadn't moved in days, clutching her latest bottle of liquor, having left the idea of a shot glass behind far too long ago. "Clarabella, why do you stay with me?" Harry knew using Clarabella would sting, since it was a pet name she only used once in a while, but she couldn't help it.

"Because I love you," Clara answered.

"Why do you love me?"

Clara's gaze simultaneously softened and hardened. Harry always wondered how she did that. "I love you because you are Harriet Olivia Watson. I'm your wife, you should know that."

"But I am a horrible person. I don't understand why you would love me because I'm me."

Clara swallowed, and Harry could see tears in her eyes. "I just do, Harry. There's no explaining it."

"You're hurting, Clarabella. The explanation for that is me," Harry slurred, standing up. Her steps were staggered and uneven, but she knew she had to walk.

"What are you doing?" Clara asked, finally crying. Harry nodded, that was what was supposed to happen. Her love would cry, and then it all would get better.

"I'm leaving, because you will never leave me."

"Why are you leaving? I love you and I will always love you!" Clara's voice was cracking, and God, did it break Harry's alcohol-sullied heart, but it had to happen.

"I am hurting you, and it needs to stop. I can't live like this, with you. With anybody. Johnny is ashamed of me, but he's too nice to say so, and since he's in Afghanistan, I can't exactly leave him. So I'm leaving you."

"Harriet Watson...!" Clara broke off, moving to wipe the teardrops from her cheeks. "You...are...notgoing! No! You can't!"

"No one is going to stop me!" Harry drunk-yelled back. "Goodbye! If you're lucky, you'll never have to see me again!"

"I LOVE YOU, YOU ARSEHOLE!"

"I  _CAN'T_  LOVE YOU!" Harry slammed her bottle of Scotch on the table by the door, hard enough she hoped it would shatter and glass would rain on the floor, like the pieces of their hearts. Of course, Clara's would be put back together easily, but Harry wanted to leave hers there. It would form artwork gouging into the wood floors more beautiful than she'd ever been. "GOODBYE!" She left her keys and shut the door behind her. Harry wondered why she needed Clara to tell her after all this time that she loved her, since she should have been able to just know. She smirked bitterly. It never worked on her wife.

Harry wandered the streets of London until she was thoroughly lost. She didn't want to be found, least of all by herself. This began a streak of long nights and even longer days, trying to find a job, begging on the street corners, looking for places to stay when it got to cold to sleep in a blanket on the ground. This was it, the Harry Watson existence reduced to a too-thin body and a bottle that sometimes held money.

* * *

The day her brother found his flatmate was also the day Harry found a dirt-cheap place to 'live'. Clara had sent back all her things, and Harry thought she knew why. Harry and Clara were similar in that if something held bad memories, they more often than not got rid of it. But, Harry kept one thing of Clara's that she couldn't bear to let go of: the necklace. It was a sapphire and diamond pendant necklace with a thin chain, CW for Clara Watson engraved on the silver-plated back. Just touching it reminded her of cherry lipgloss and nights spent with Clara's hair twirled around Harry's fingers. It was  _painful._  But, what on earth was she supposed to do?

Harry was sitting in her new flat, wearing Clara's necklace and not unpacking when her new phone rang. She reached for it, but almost put it back down again when she saw the number on the screen. It used to be hers, but she couldn't look at that phone without thinking too much, so she gave it to Johnny in the hopes her big brother would find a use for it. "Hey Johnny," she said, trying to sound okay.

"Harry, you'll never believe what just happened!" Her brother sounded so happy, Harry could barely believe it. "I found a man who will share a flat with me. He's amazing, he deduces people, he deduced me within the first few minutes of me meeting him."

"I've never heard of him. Who is he?" Harry asked.

"I just met him yesterday. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he's a consulting detective. The only one in the world." Harry could hear the beaming smile in her brother's voice. "Anyway, I'm very happy. He's an absolute prat sometimes, but I really like him."

Harry was going to say she was so glad he was happy, since she worried about him, but then she was hit with a thought. Her 'magic power' hadn't disappeared with Clara. Johnny was in love with Sherlock.

* * *

Maybe a year and a half of John's blinding happiness passed before it all exploded. There were three days of John being in incurable agony, telling Harry he didn't know how long he could last, telling her Sherlock was gone and was never coming back, telling her he'd never known pain in Afghanistan, even when he was shot, but he knew it now. Harry knew she couldn't help, and that killed her.

After those three awful days, John was eerily calm. When Harry mentioned the name Sherlock Holmes, it was like the man never existed in the first place. Harry threw the most painful memories Johnny had told her right back at him, but he responded with nothing more than a cold "I don't know what you're talking about".

Harry wondered if her brother was more broken than herself.

It was this event that made her start looking for Clara at the supermarket again. She couldn't live like that, with John unresponsive and everyone else gone. Harry needed someone, and she was beyond the thought that she was bad for Clara. She needed Clara back.

Clara had had the job at the supermarket, the same 10 am to 4 pm shift the whole time she and Harry were dating and married, and she would always go to the market between 6 and 8 pm. Harry wandered around the place generally until the other employees that were never Clara kicked her out.

A year passed, the same hours going and going and gone. Nothing happened. The pain was still there, Harry had to move again, and John was still dying inside. It didn't ever end, Harry thought to herself as she stared out her one grimy window. Never never.

Of course, being kidnapped was the most interesting thing that had happened to her in a long time. Especially since her brother came to save her.

"Because you're amazing," she heard a man's deep voice say when she bothered to pay attention. Johnny said something in reply to that, but Harry ignored it, because she knew that voice. Sherlock Holmes was back! Her brother was going to be happy again!

She ended up being too drunk to walk, so Sherlock carried her. Harry knew Johnny was fully capable of taking care of himself, but sometimes she had to be the big sister and watch over him. She would make sure Sherlock Holmes would never hurt her big brother again, and maybe he would help her find Clara.

Harry wondered how a meeting in a supermarket could have turned her whole life upside down and fermented-wheat-smelling. In fact, she didn't even want to know. But now, she had a duty to Johnny: make sure Sherlock didn't hurt him like Harry had hurt Clara.


	9. 19:00

"John?" Sherlock asked from his chair. His hands were poised under his chin, and dear God was he nervous. He'd been nervous for days. Ever since he realized he'd revealed his  _affections_ for John, by  _accident,_ damn alcohol, Sherlock hadn't been able to act normally around John. He was fairly sure John wouldn't notice, since the shorter man had a habit of seeing but not observing. Sherlock never thought he would be grateful for it.

John looked to see the detective sitting with his eyes closed. He wondered if Sherlock remembered what he'd said: he was in love with John. John wasn't uncomfortable with this because Sherlock was male; actually, he was uncomfortable because he didn't want to walk on eggshells with the genius. He wanted them to have a functioning relationship, however it had started, without the elephant in the room. It was  _beyond_ frustrating.

"Yes, darling?" John smiled softly, coming around the chair to face Sherlock.

Sherlock could feel his eyes begin to twitch, even though they were closed. Did that occur often? "Can you...er...kiss me?" Damn, Sherlock didn't mean to say that! But he couldn't take it back.

"Darling, you don't have to ask." John leaned forward and pressed his lips to the detective's, pulling away soon after. He didn't want Sherlock to feel like John was trying to push him. If Sherlock couldn't admit his feelings, then John wouldn't do anything to make him. "How's that?"

"Better," Sherlock replied, opening his eyes. He stood up; there was an experiment that he needed to conduct. "I need to go to the police station."

John looked at him, slightly alarmed. Why did John care so much? Sherlock was beyond thinking about that now, however. "Was something stolen?"

"Of a sort." Sherlock was avoiding the question. John sighed.

"Alright. Do you need me to come with you?"

"No, thank you, John. I'll be back soon." Sherlock rushed out the door of 221B, shutting it loudly behind him. John had no idea what all of this was about, so he went downstairs to see the landlady.

* * *

Sherlock huffed, very annoyed. This cabbie was absolutely incompetent! He'd been going in circles around the New Scotland Yard headquarters for over ten minutes, and Sherlock's time could not be wasted at this juncture!

"Stop here, please," he said, handing a bill to the cabbie and getting out of the cab before it had fully stopped. Sherlock turned his coat collar up and walked briskly into the wind. Stupid, infernally boring people. They all were missing something vital. All of them, even John. Especially John.

He strode into the Yard, swiping a key card he'd stolen a long time ago. No one had noticed it was gone. People's short-sightedness was remarkable, and currently the bane of Sherlock Holmes' existence. "Sir, can I help you?" a young man asked, walking out of his cubicle.

"I'm looking for a Detective Inspector Lestrade. Seen him around?"

The man shook his head. "Mr. Lestrade isn't a DI anymore. Got demoted after he let someone escape, someone who'd been in the files. The boss was furious."

"How long have you worked here?" Sherlock asked.

"Around a year. Why?"

Sherlock almost laughed. It all came back to that time, didn't it? "Where can I find him?"

"His office is on the other side of the building. He's a Sergeant, but he's not let on many cases. I can show you, if you like." The young man gestured down the hallway.

"That would be unnecessary, I know the building. Anything else I should know?"

The man thought for a moment. "The real DI now is Sally. If you have a real problem, you should go talk to her instead."

Sherlock glared at him before going down the hall.  _Donovan,_  of course she got all the credit. And perhaps Anderson won the lottery or a high-paying job opened up! Why did the idiots get everything? They knew nothing! He muttered under his breath as he went through the building, scaring more than a few interns with the deductions he began spitting. When he reached Lestrade's new office, there were a trail of loudly talking complainers behind him.

"What is all the ruckus about?" a rough man's voice asked, its owner peeking his head out the door.

Sherlock looked the man up and down. "Oh, Lestrade. Your wife finally left you for the PE teacher, didn't she?"

Lestrade stared at him. "Alright, Holmes, how the hell do you know that?"

"Doesn't matter. You're going to answer my questions."

"Why would I do that?"

"You're curious."

Lestrade stared at him for a minute before swearing and letting Sherlock in.

* * *

John knocked on the door of 221A. It smelled very good in there, like biscuits. A kind-looking older woman in an apron greeted him. "Hello, dear. John, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh," she laughed a little. "No reason to call me that."

"Alright, Mrs. Hudson."

She motioned to her kitchen. "Would you like to come in? I've just made chocolate biscuits."

"That would be lovely." John walked in, remembering suddenly that the first time he'd come in here, he'd relied on his cane to move anywhere. He didn't even know where his cane was anymore. Sherlock had probably stolen and used it for an experiment. The genius loved experiments, John had discovered over the couple of weeks they'd been...fake boyfriends? Real boyfriends? Rebounders? He shook his head, trying to clear it. He had questions.

"So, how long have you known Sherlock?" he asked. Mrs. Hudson had put a plate of biscuits on the kitchen and was nibbling on one when he sat down.

She smiled. "He got me out of a tough spot about three years ago. My husband was on trial for murder, and was going to be put in prison for life."

"Did he prevent it?"

"No, he ensured it." Mrs. Hudson shook her head disapprovingly. "My husband was not a good man. Lovely when we were younger, but I figured out he'd been running a drug cartel behind my back the whole time. Nasty business."

John took a biscuit from the plate. "When did Sherlock come looking for a flat here?"

"Not very long ago. Earlier, when he'd solved my husband's problem, he'd been looking at your flat, 221B. But he went..." She furrowed her brow. "Well, I don't know where he went. He practically disappeared for two years. I was rather worried. Sherlock showed up here abruptly after that, though. Nearly gave me a heart attack, he did. He said he'd take any flat I had, any one of them in this building, he didn't care which. He was so specific before, but when I told him it was taken, he looked  _happy._ "

John thought about that. His flat, why had Sherlock wanted his flat? And then when it was taken, he was glad? It didn't make much sense, but John knew everything Sherlock did had a reason. Unless he was bored. Then, nothing had a reason.

"Where do you think he went?" John asked, taking a serious bite of the biscuit.

"Your guess is as good as mine, dear. Sherlock's always been a sort of mystery man. Always alone, always solving murders. If he had someone, just one person, I wouldn't worry about him so much."

"Well..." John wasn't sure how to explain this to the older woman. "We're sharing my flat right now. Apparently, he hurt his best friend, and then his friend left him, and now he's staying with me because he wants to move on. I hope he'll be okay soon. I'm worried about him too, you know. That's why I'm asking you about him." He fell silent. "Nothing creepy or anything like that."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a knowing look. "Oh, that's alright, dear. I understand perfectly." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You know, if you want some  _company,_  the woman next door, Mrs. Turner, has got  _married_  ones."

John stared at her for a second before getting what she was saying and blushing. "No, we're not like that. I mean, he's just conducting an experiment with me. Nothing major. Just, er, kissing and holding hands and things. We're not together in real life."

Mrs. Hudson must have seen something in the look on his face, because she said, "You want to be?"

"I don't know. He's the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, and the only reason he's with me is to rebound from a bad relationship. He loved his best friend, and now his best friend is gone, so he saw me and noticed similarities, and now we're dating, sort of, to see if he can get over him. There's no reason why this should get any farther, so I'm going to leave it. If he's better, that's all I care about."

She hummed under her breath. "Dear, you might want to tell Sherlock this. He doesn't get emotions as well as most people." Mrs. Hudson placed a hand over John's hands, which were clasped on the table. "You're very special, John, even if you don't believe it. Sherlock shared a part of himself with you when that man is as cagey as a bird in a pet shop. You mean a lot to him."

* * *

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the  _Sergeant_  Lestrade's desk. He didn't bother trying to remember the man's first name anymore, he had more important things to do. "Let's start with a bit of information from me. I've been working on cases with you for years before you got demoted. Remember that? And yet, the year before this one is a blur, isn't it? You don't remember how you got demoted nor why."

Lestrade shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I made a mistake sometime during that year, and obviously Sally didn't. End of story. Next question, where were you during the last  _two_ years?"

Sherlock huffed. "I was only gone one of those years. Recently. Mycroft gave me a job. Involved destroying a very dangerous criminal organization. But during the year  _no one_ seems to remember, I was here the whole time. That cannot be a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy."

"That can't be right, Sherlock. Plenty of people remember the last two years."

"It isn't the last two years." Sherlock sighed, exasperated. Why did he interact with normal people, again? "It's the year before this one."

"Well, that year was probably unimportant then."

"UUUUGGHHHHH." Sherlock pressed two fingers to either temple. "Hm. Question. Do you remember the serial suicides case? Four victims, all took the same pill."

Lestrade stared at him like he was crazy. The looks got a bit irritating after a while. "There were only three."

Sherlock sat up immediately. "Say that again."

"There were only three 'serial suicides'. That knighted guy, the young man, and the blonde woman."

Sherlock deduced Lestrade for a moment, trying to make sure he was telling the truth. "Lestrade, are you certain? This changes everything."

"Yes, I'm certain. It was November." Wait, November? When Sherlock met... _him._

"I need to speak to a woman about a letter," he said, standing quickly and opening Lestrade's office door. "Your help has been invaluable."

Lestrade watched the consulting detective stalk away, shaking his head. That man's mind moved far too fast for him to process. How had Sherlock gotten from serial suicides to a woman's letter? He turned back to his door and sat back at his desk, trying to reorganize the mess on top of it.

Sherlock walked back through the NSY building, barely containing his excitement. The mystery was unraveling, and soon he would understand. Certain didn't remember just one year, starting with the serial suicides, and ending with Moriarty's death. What connected the victims to the time period? Oh, he loved puzzles! "It's Christmas!" he shouted, skipping through the double doors.


	10. 04:00

Sherlock looked at the clock next to John's bed. Perfect. This time of morning would be best to get the information from Harriet. He carefully shifted out of his partner's arms and tiptoed to the closed door. John just barely moved, letting out a breath of air, and then going back to sleep. Sherlock smiled; he wanted John to get at least some sleep. He'd learned that although he didn't really need it, people like John did, so he tried to not disturb him.

The flat was so quiet at night. Sherlock wished he could fill it with violin music, but Harriet said it reminded her of Clara, so he stopped. But he itched for it sometimes, like now. The streetlights illuminated the windows just enough that he could have composed. Sherlock stood in front of them for a moment, looking outside. It was dark, but London never truly rested. He remembered chases through those shadowy streets, lit by only streetlamps. He shook his head. That was a long time ago. He had other things he needed to take care of.

Harriet was asleep on the couch, clutching a picture of her and Clara that John had saved from before he went to war. Sherlock gazed at her, wondering how she could be still so in love with someone after years of being without them. And then he answered his own question, wondering how he could have asked it in the first place. She looked unhappy, Sherlock realized. She had that same look on her face that he carried with him the past year.

Sherlock, with great care, shook the sleeping woman. "Hmph," she mumbled.

"I need to ask you a few things. And please keep quiet. John's still asleep, and if you wake him, I will be less than pleased."

Harriet stretched, her limbs extending past the couch's arms. "Jesus, man. What the hell could you possibly want at 4 am? Riddle me that."

"It's not a riddle," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "And I want to ask you about the letters John sent you the past two years."

She nodded. "Alright. If you want to see the real things, my flat isn't far from here."

"I know, we went to your flat after you got kidnapped, remember?"

"Whatever,  _Sherlock._ " She stood up. "Well? Are we going to get a cab or what?" Sherlock thought about it for less than a second before following her out of the flat, quietly closing the door behind them.

* * *

John knew something wasn't right when he woke up in the middle of the night without a warm body curled up against him. Namely, a thin, pale as marble body that was surprisingly angled. Sherlock wasn't there.

It made him sad for a moment, unexplainably sad, but he shook himself out of it. Sherlock had probably gone out for a walk in the London night. He always said it reminded him, and John never pressed farther than that.

As long as he was up, John decided to make himself a cuppa, since it usually helped any sort of problem. He slipped on one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, not finding one of his own in the dark. (Of course, there was another reason, but John refused to think about it.) When he left their room, he looked around the sitting room and found his sister was gone as well. Where would those two go together?

John flitted about the kitchen, boiling water, grabbing a mug, and picking out the soothing tea he'd bought a month ago but used only a few times. After steeping the tea for longer than was probably necessary, he sat down in his chair, taking small sips. If John looked around the flat from this position, he thought he could hear whispers, voices echoing from the corners of the room.

Many people had been in the flat, his tired mind thought. Many different women, one with a snarky tone, a man that had been infernally nasty to both John and...someone else. A kind man, one that had only come in for business and once for a...drugs bust? No, that couldn't have been it. Another man with a posh voice, who'd had intelligent yet very childish arguments with...that someone. It wasn't John, he knew that much. But the drugs bust, where had that come from?

* * *

_"You look around this flat and you won't find anything most people would call_ recreational. _"_

_"John, you should probably stop talking now."_

_John looked him over, up and down. "No. Really?"_

_"Oh, shut up." He made it sound like one word, with just a little extra emphasis. SHUtup._

* * *

When had John shared this flat? And with a person he'd thought such things about?

* * *

_"Ugh! Everybody shut up! Don't move, don't think, don't breathe! Anderson, turn around, your face puts me off."_

_"What? Why do I have to turn around?" an indignant man asked._

_"Just do it," another man sighed. When the first man didn't do as asked, he said, considerably more agitated, "Do it!"_

_The man in the center of the room banged his head against the wall. "Think, think, who do we trust without knowing who they are?"_

_John wanted to ask him to stop, since it looked like he was hurting himself._

* * *

Who was this person? Beautiful, he knew that much. But nothing else identified him.

* * *

_"I'll get in using my brother's ID. I give him twenty minutes before he realizes I've broken in." He sent a devilish look to John's side of the Jeep. "Baskerville hasn't met me yet. I should give them the pleasure."_

* * *

Ugh, the images. They moved almost too fast for John to see.

* * *

_"You liked pulling rank, didn't you?" he asked. "_ Captain  _Watson."_

_John smiled at him, but didn't answer until the lieutenant was out of earshot. "Yes, actually, I did." He didn't say: "I actually like helping you."_

* * *

_"Bored, John!" Every time he said the word, a gunshot sounded and a bullet entered the wall. Somehow, a yellow smiley face had been painted on it in John's absence. "Bored!" "Bored!" "Bored!"_

_"Is that my gun?!" John asked, covering his ears._

_"Who else's could it be? I don't believe Mrs. Hudson has one stored among her herbal soothers."_

* * *

John laughed aloud. He knew about her 'herbal soothers' and found it highly unlikely a gun would be found near them. John looked sideways to see the smiley face on the wall. Who had put it there? He remembered seeing it when he looked at the flat, and Mrs. Hudson seemed to not know how it had come about either. Nothing added up. "Damn."

* * *

Sherlock stood awkwardly in the doorway to Harriet's flat, waiting to be let in. This was John's sister, and he was loathe to upset her. "Geez, Sherly, come on in. The letters are over here." He stepped cautiously in, making sure not to disturb anything that could be evidence. Something was wrong, and had been since everyone he knew forgot the last two years.

"So, Johnny sent this first one in October. Normal then, boring, he sounded kind of depressed. Clara was long gone by then." Sherlock took the notebook paper from her hands. Notebook paper. John used it because he couldn't write in a straight line. The writing was too blocky and structured to be John's normal handwriting (Sherlock had seen it many times), so he wasn't feeling like himself. Feeling like he had to fit his life into the dull picture frame that was civilian life. He felt trapped, sad, and he slept terribly.

"This next one is from early November. He talked about not being able to find a job, and there's a weird sentence in there about the gun he hid in his bedside table." Sherlock took the paper from her. The writing was even more structured, John was trying to stay in control more. It almost hurt to deduce this letter.

"Alright, now here's when it gets strange. Mid-November, he sounds far more hopeful and mentions someone named Sherlock Holmes. But he doesn't remember you. That's so unnatural, because Johnny remembers everyone he meets, and you are pretty hard to forget."

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded. He stared at the letter. Printer paper. Slanted writing. New pen, flowing ink. Probably a Pilot G2.07. Sherlock enjoyed those pens. John was  _happy._  Sherlock wondered how that could have happened so fast, and why.

And then reality set in. Normally it wouldn't have taken this long.

John had lost the memories of the past two years, and he was Sherlock's boyfriend, and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan, and Anderson had a similar pattern. Harriet hadn't directly known him, and her memories were perfectly intact. So this had to do with  _Sherlock._  And who would do this? Sherlock could count on one hand.

Moriarty, before death, or Mycroft.

Sherlock didn't know whether Mycroft would do such a thing, however. Erase the memories of John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Donovan? The only people that even remotely cared about him? Donovan, well, she didn't really care, but Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson?  _John?_

Sherlock decided then that he would do anything to solve this puzzle. He wanted the one person he'd ever loved back in his life the way he used to be. Sherlock knew it was selfish, somewhere in a forgotten corner of his mind palace, but chose to ignore it. This was all he had, and he was going to get it back.

* * *

John woke up to two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs. He'd fallen asleep in his chair; his tea went cold long before, and he was still wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. The lighter, smaller-sounding steps were most likely Harry's, while the more purposeful, harder footfalls were probably Sherlock's. He wondered if at least Harry would apologize for leaving him in the middle of the night, taking his partner, and not telling him where they went. He doubted it.

As John heard the steps reach the door to 221B, he faked being asleep. If he confronted them now, no one would get to sleep. And Sherlock needed sleep more than anyone else. When the door opened, it opened almost soundlessly, Harry clomping to the couch and dropped, beginning to breathe slowly and slightly snore. Sherlock crept toward John, stopping right in front of him. John forced his breathing to relax, as he always needed it to when he was around the detective.

Sherlock didn't do anything John could hear for a few seconds, and then he felt the genius' hand brush his hair away from his forehead. "It'll be alright soon," he nearly inaudibly whispered. "You'll be mine again when the game is won. Nothing else will keep you away from me." Sherlock leaned down to press a gentle kiss to John's forehead. "I promise I'll fix this."

Suddenly, the footsteps fell away, leaving the sitting room, and John. He waited until all was silent again before moving. Standing up, he walked as softly as he could back to his and Sherlock's bedroom. When John peeked through the door, Sherlock was sprawled across the bed, leaving just enough space for John to crawl back into his arms. He situated himself carefully, making sure the detective was still sleeping. As John looked at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock, he hoped work wouldn't be too difficult. He wasn't exactly young enough anymore to pull all-nighters. But he'd endure a hundred all-nighters for Sherlock.

"Let's not do this every night," he breathed.

Sherlock didn't respond, but John didn't expect him to.

"Goodnight, darling," John mouthed, drifting off with just that effort. Although, it was almost morning then.


	11. 07:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Testing season happened. Sorry about the lateness, you guys.

Mycroft Holmes had a few purposes in life: remaining the most intelligent being in the room, taking care of his little brother, Sherlock, and making sure the world didn't fall into war. In that order.

He rarely regretted putting his priorities in that order, since staying the most intelligent and taking care of Sherlock were very close competitors, but sometimes, he was completely and utterly wrong. Not that he would ever admit that.

* * *

The day John Watson walked into Sherlock's life was the day Mycroft was surprised for the first time in years. John refused Mycroft's offer of money in exchange for Sherlock's activities because John had gotten attached to his brother in just a few hours. John had agreed to share a flat with him. John had gone to  _crime scenes_ with him. He'd never met someone who so readily accepted his brother, and it was quite strange. Mycroft wasn't sure he trusted it.

In just a few more hours, John had killed someone to save Sherlock's life. The moment he deduced what had happened, he told his assistant to form a new file, entitled 'Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson'. The two of them had a quality he'd never seen in his brother, nor in someone acquainted with his brother. John had something all the other goldfish didn't. Mycroft knew that Sherlock wouldn't be able to change back into the man he was before John, but he didn't think it would be so destructive in the end.

* * *

"You're disappointed," Sherlock said.

"Really? How can you tell?" John replied sarcastically.

His brother seemed to be struggling with how to word this so the good doctor would understand, but more importantly, stop the disappointment. Whenever John was unhappy, Sherlock tried to fix it. He didn't like seeing John unhappy, and Mycroft didn't logically understand that. Why would feelings have to matter in this situation?

"These people aren't going to come alive again if I'm crying at their bedside, John. You're an army doctor, you should understand that."

John didn't say anything back. "Oh," Sherlock added. "You expected more from me."

"I'm your partner and your flatmate. I expect more from you without trying to." Sherlock looked up, storing what John had said in his mind palace, and saw the camera Mycroft was operating. From his pocket, he pulled a small device that interrupted the signal, and the picture and sound were cut off.

* * *

"Bet you didn't expect this," John said. Mycroft didn't have any picture, as Sherlock's phone was in his pocket, but the sound was enough.

"John?" Sherlock asked. There was a rustling of clothing, not Sherlock's, so probably John's.

"What...would you like me...to make him say...next?" The rustle happened again, and Sherlock drew in a deep breath.

"Stop this, stop this now." Sherlock was pleading with a criminal power. Mycroft put his head in his hands. You didn't  _plead_ with the ones as powerful as Moriarty. You either fought them, or made a deal with them. Had his brother learned nothing?

"Gave you my number," an Irish-accented, sing-song voice said. "Thought you would call." Mycroft immediately slid his phone open and speed-dialed four.

"Hello," a bleary, drowsy man drawled.

"Gregory. My brother and Dr. Watson are in the pool room of a high school at this address." He gave the address. "A criminal mastermind currently occupies the same space, so I suggest you get your best officers and go now."

"Right, Mycroft." He could hear the sound of clothes being put on, and a gun being strapped to a belt. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I cannot lose my brother, Gregory." Mycroft paused. "Dr. Watson cannot lose him either. Make sure he gets out alive."

"But what about-" Mycroft hung up. Every second was important.

"People have died," Sherlock was saying.

"That's what people  **DO**."

Mycroft made another call. "Hello? Yes, it's Mr. Holmes. I am currently quite ill and will not be able to come to the office tomorrow. Please cancel all my meetings."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," Anthea replied. "I can cancel them this entire week if need be."

"What would I do without you, dear?"

Mycroft could hear the smile over the phone. "You wouldn't be doing anything. You'd be dead."

Anthea ended the call, and Mycroft tuned back in. "John, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." John paused. "You took off my clothes in a secluded area, won't people talk?" Mycroft glared at the listening device. They were already relaxing, obviously the battle wasn't over.

"People will always talk, John." He could visualize the smiling doctor, because John had few other expressions. Ugh, did they not feel the danger still surrounding them? A different device still heard the breathing of Moriarty and several other people, possibly snipers. Mycroft wanted to shake them, but he was too far away.

"Alright, let's get out of here." Sherlock and John started to walk towards the exit, and Mycroft noticed the breathing from the other device getting faster and faster.

"Sorry, boys! I'm soooooo changeable!" Mycroft immediately reached for his phone again, out of habit only, but there was no one left to call. Without putting himself in danger, there was nothing he could do.

The sharp intake of breath from the good doctor meant the snipers had found their targets: at least three on each man's chest. His brother, much to Mycroft's pride, did not react.

"Oh, honey. You can't shoot me. Otherwise, I'll shoot your lovely friend." And the enemy knew about Sherlock's strange attachment to the doctor as well. This day was getting worse and worse by the minute. Gregory better have the NSY behind him and the building surrounded. Some legwork would be required, but he could hurt everyone involved in the NSY very deeply.

"Or..." Mycroft hated that he didn't have any sight to understand what Sherlock did.

"Ooh, now it's getting fun. So,  _Sherlock_. Shall we play?"

John's breathing elevated, so Sherlock was putting everyone in jeopardy. But the snipers weren't moving.  _The bomb._  His brother was going to shoot the bomb.

Everyone stood in absolute silence. No one's heart moved any faster, steady as the wind outside. The scene, if Mycroft could see it, would be as a tableau, never changing.

Within this silence and stillness suddenly rang a song. "Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive."

"I need to take this, boys." Moriarty slid his phone from his pocket. "Hello?" He paused, listening to the person on the other end. " **SAY THAT AGAIN!**  Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will  _skin_  you."

Mycroft couldn't follow what Moriarty mouthed to his brother, but Sherlock mouthed back, "It's fine."

Once the conversation finished, Moriarty said slowly, "Sorry. Wrong day to die."

"Did you get a better offer?"

Moriarty didn't answer the question, but walked away, saying, "Goodbye, boys. See you around."

"Catch. You. Later." Sherlock didn't put down the gun until Moriarty was really gone, and the snipers had moved their red dots away from the two of them.

John sighed, long and deep. "At least we didn't actually have to blow up the pool."

"Yes, so you'd make it out alive."

"Well..." John paused. "Yes, sure. But I wanted you to get out."

Mycroft could feel the surprise on his brother's face. "Oh." They stayed silent until the police sirens could be heard.

Sherlock learned nothing from John being strapped to a bomb. John risked his life for Sherlock's, Mycroft deduced later, and Sherlock was willing to kill himself to save John. Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft wanted to tell his brother, but when he finally could, they were too far gone.

* * *

"You were right. He thinks it's Mycroft." The moment Mycroft picked that up on the bug, he immediately zoomed in and found John walking farther into an abandoned building. He, in fact, was in his office, enjoying a cup of Anthea-brewed tea.

"He's playing sad music," John called into the empty space. "Won't eat, won't sleep. If this were anyone else, he'd be in mourning, but since he's Sherlock, I don't know what to think. He's your brother, tell me-" And here entered The Woman.

"You're...you're not dead."

"Really?" Mycroft walked away from his headset briefly to get more tea, and when he came back, she was saying, "I told him all the usual stuff. 'I'm bored. Let's have dinner. 'I'm not hungry, let's have dinner.' 'Good morning.' 'What are you wearing?'"

John stifled a laugh. "You tried to flirt with Sherlock Holmes? That's not really his area."

"And yet he has you."

"We're not a couple."

"Oh, yes you are," The Woman replied like there was no room for argument.

A giant sigh from the doctor and an eye roll. "No matter what the population of London thinks to the contrary, I am not gay!"

"And I am. Look at us both." Both Mycroft and John had the saddest looks in their eyes, but both would deny it. Mycroft knew his brother was self-destructive, and would hurt him and John if he left. But John's mind was a little harder to read.

John knew he was in deep, and that he couldn't crawl back out of the hole. As Mycroft looked farther, he saw that John  _didn't want to._

* * *

Mycroft was always in the background, mostly when Sherlock and John didn't know it, but sometimes when they did, and didn't care. He witnessed and heard many things, most of which ignited his brotherly desire to keep Sherlock safe from the pain he felt when the people he trusted left him. The rest was something hidden very, very deep in his mind palace that he didn't dare name.

*contentment*

But it wouldn't last.

* * *

"Sherlock? Where are you? I can't see you."

"Look up."

John drew in a heaving breath. "Sherlock, what are you doing up there? Never mind, I'm coming up."

"No! Stop, don't move!"

The doctor held up a hand. "Alright. Alright."

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" There was desperation in both of their voices, and God, did it throw small sticks of dynamite into the wall Mycroft had built around the Sherlock-and-John section of his mind palace. He tried to keep it back, tried to control the destruction.

"This phone call, it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

Moriarty had threatened John's life, and Mycroft knew that every part of Sherlock's sense, what little he had, was torn away.

"No. No!"

"Goodbye, John." There were tears running down his brother's face, and Mycroft began making the preparations to save Sherlock's life without his brother's permission. The world needed him, he couldn't just throw himself off of St. Bart's.

"Sherlock? SHERLOCK!" John ran forward; Mycroft pressed the 'Send' button. It was done.

* * *

Now whenever Mycroft checked on the two of them, living separate lives, John having forgotten Sherlock, and Sherlock remembering everything, he wondered if he shouldn't have just let Sherlock jump. Yes, he loved his brother, in a sort of way that could be analyzed extensively and controlled, and he believed the world needed Sherlock, but his brother was dead now. His mind worked beautifully, but the person behind his mind was gone. Mycroft didn't know if he could ever get it back. Because John had been ripped from Sherlock in such a way, Sherlock's  _heart_  people said, there was a hole in him that couldn't be sewed back together by a surgeon.

John was just empty. A shell of himself, and since someone, most likely Moriarty, had deleted his memories of Sherlock, there was nothing to fix. And Mycroft hated it.

* * *

One night, the night Mycroft saw Sherlock for the first time after he eradicated Moriarty's web, the dam broke.

Mycroft was sitting in his desk at the Holmes family mansion, when his beaten down, bedraggled, tortured, broken brother stumbled in. "Myc," he whispered, a childhood nickname that kicked down the doors of several rooms in the Palace. Something was so very wrong. Sherlock collapsed on the carpeted floor and began to sob.

Mycroft stood from his chair and rushed over, sitting back down and cradling Sherlock's head in his lap. The last time he'd seen his brother like this was when one of the children on the playground had told Sherlock he was a Freak and should kill himself to save everyone the annoyance of seeing his face every day. He'd told Sherlock that caring wasn't an advantage, and further incidents stopped. But this was different, because Sherlock couldn't stop his emotions anymore, as Mycroft had learned to do very early on. He couldn't help his brother, and his heart, wherever it was, was dissolving away with every tear Sherlock cried.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft whispered. Sherlock didn't answer except for John's name, over and over, all through that night.

* * *

When Mycroft turned the monitors back on for 221B Baker Street, he saw Sherlock standing in front of John's door at 5 am. Sherlock was going to try to fix his heart. And Mycroft wasn't going to interfere again. He turned the monitor back off and left the room.


	12. 16:00

"Clara, why are you hiding behind the shelf?" The object of the name turned around, praying it wasn't who she thought it was. "You should be working, not hiding from your ex-wife." Clara sighed in relief. It was just her boss.

"Harry shouldn't be here this time of day. I changed my shift for this reason only."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Darling, she's worried, and slightly drunk. You should help her, even just this once."

"She chose to leave me. Harry's on her own now," Clara said, looking over the shelves to see if Harry was in view.

"Clara?" She wondered if Harry had been eating enough lately. "Clara?"

"What?!" Clara looked back at her.

"You're worried too, now."

"Shut up." She really didn't want to admit it, but she thought about Harry every once in a while. Okay, a lot. Okay, practically all the time. She shouldn't! She should forget all about Harriet Olivia Watson and her short hair that Clara could almost run her fingers through and the necklace Clara had given back when she heard where Harry had moved to and why she called her Clarabella, beautiful Clara. The sooner all of it was gone, the better. But she couldn't bring herself to hate Harry. And that was infuriating. If she hated Harry, all of this would be so much easier.

"Clara, there's woman over there who looks lost. Aisle 6."

She shook herself out of her reverie. "Alright. I'll go get her."

Kate caught her arm as Clara passed her. "Let Harry go, Clara. You both have been living with this for too long. I don't like seeing you sad." She nodded. Kate had lost someone as well, Clara never asked who, but she began to take care of Clara to almost make up for it, like how she used to take care of her someone. She never thought she'd be grateful for the protectiveness now.

The woman in the aisle was mousy and small. Long-haired, otherwise Clara would have wussed out. She was staring at the cleaning supplies like she didn't know where to start. "Hi," Clara said, coming over. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes, thank you." She smiled at Clara. "One of my...one of the people..." She looked confused. "I'm not really sure what to call him, but he needs some hydrogen peroxide for an experiment, and he refuses to go out and get it for himself." The woman sighed. "It's complicated. Anyway, the stuff seems to have disappeared."

"Oh, I know complicated," Clara muttered. "Try me."

The woman looked surprised. "His name is Sherlock Holmes, and I had a crush on him for the longest time. Two years ago, he met someone named John, and they hit it off. Sherlock doesn't like people, and he's so blind to feelings, but he let John in. A year later, he thew himself off St. Barts. Did you hear about that?"

"Yes. But why would you be getting things for him if he's dead?" Clara thought she recognized the name John, but she didn't think it could have been Harry's brother.

She frowned a little. "I helped him fake his death so that he could basically save London from my former boyfriend, Jim Moriarty. He was also on trial for grand theft of the Crown Jewels and lots of other felonies."

"You can really pick them," Clara remarked, a slight rueful smile on her face.

The corner of the woman's mouth twitched up. "Yeah. John was heartbroken for a few days, but then it was like Sherlock never existed for him. I don't know what happened, his body probably blocked out memories of Sherlock to save itself. Sherlock was Johnless for a while, and that was hell for everyone involved." She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Now, he's back in the same flat he used to live in, with John, and they're dating now, according to DI Lestrade, who works with them. But John still doesn't remember." Her brow furrowed. "So I'm in quite the mess with them."

Clara smiled. "I'll take that back. I don't know complicated as well as you. What's your name?"

"Dr. Molly Hooper."

"Clara..." She paused. "Watson."

Molly's eyes went wide. "Are you related to John, then?"

Clara groaned, putting her hands on her head. "No. Not anymore." Ugh, how did everything get this messed up?

"What do you mean?"

"I used to be married to his sister."

Her lips formed an O shape. "Complicated. You said you knew about it."

"Yep."

Molly nodded. "How did it happen?"

"Long story. She left me." Clara stared at her shoes.

"Are you still in love with her?"

Clara didn't need to think about the answer. "Yes, but I wish I wasn't."

* * *

Harry stood by the entrance to Tesco. Clara's shift was supposed to have ended, but she needed to stay there. The wall she leaned against kept her from falling over. She was tired, beyond tired. Sherlock's little excursion had destroyed a few hours of already sparse sleep, and she destroyed a few more by coming to Tesco, so she was basically done. If she fell asleep there, hopefully someone would pull her over to a couch.

"Hey, Harry," a kind woman's voice said.

Harry just barely looked up through heavily-lidded eyes. "Hi, Kate."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm loitering, I'm just  _really_  tired." Her tone was pretty hostile. It came out when she couldn't at least somewhat filter her words. "My brother's stupid boyfriend made me go through files for hours last night. I'm sorry, I'll try to move." She pushed off the wall and fell flat on her face, barely catching herself with her hands.

"You should really rest, Harry," Kate told her in the mom voice she used sometimes. "I'll walk you to your car."

"I don' have a car," she mumbled. "Took a cab."

"I'll hail a cab for you then."

"And how the hell do you expect me to get in?" Harry glared daggers at Kate. "Just lay me down with a blanket in your break room. You're the manager, aren't you? You can  _authorize_  that."

Kate sighed. "Sometimes you remind me of a man I met once. Tall, dark, handsome. I can give you a blanket and a chair, but I don't really have anything else for you." She lifted Harry up by the armpits and attempted to carry her.

"Don't even worry about it. If I have something to hold on to, I can sort of walk." Harry held on tight to Kate's shoulders, and Kate half-dragged her across the store. She was about to lead Harry down the aisle with poisonous chemicals, but turned abruptly into a different aisle, jostling Harry's grip significantly. "What the hell was that for?"

"That aisle has a spill."

Hm, lying or not lying? "Whatever," Harry muttered.

The break room was in the very back of the store. Kate shoved the door open with her foot, pulling Harry through with her. A chair, soft and comfortable, stood in the corner. Harry nearly melted just looking at it. "Now, stop that," the manager said, struggling to keep the exhausted woman on her feet.

"Sorry."

The chair couldn't come quick enough. As soon as Harry sat in it, she could feel her mind drifting away. She almost didn't care whether she had a blanket. "Now, you can stay here until you wake up, or until Tesco closes, whichever comes first," Kate's soft voice was saying, but Harry really didn't give a crap about what she was saying.

* * *

Clara and Molly talked for a while longer, having to sit down in the aisle. Pretty soon, both of them were crying. "One Christmas, he deduced me in the most horrible way. He had no idea I liked him until he deduced the present I'd given him. Sherlock doesn't get those kind of things, he never has, but from what I've heard, he really cares about John." Molly smiled through her tears. "John is like Sherlock's heart. Without him, Sherlock is only a great man, not a good man. And the good man is better for all of us."

"I was always the heart. Harry sometimes had a hard time telling me how she felt, showing it. She loved me, I'm sure of it, otherwise we wouldn't have gotten married, but I don't know anything about her anymore. She could be thinking about suicide or depressed, and I wouldn't know, and I wouldn't be able to do anything." Clara sniffed. "I'm so worried that someday I'll see her obituary in the newspaper, and John would have to write it, and it would be so awful, I would die too."

Molly nodded. "What happened between you two?"

"She started drinking, and it got really bad, but I kept thinking she would get out of it. Harry didn't, and it only got worse. Finally, one night, she said she was going to go to save me from herself." Clara looked at her hands. "She was drunk, so she probably didn't mean it. In her mind, she was probably a knight in shining armor, a martyr."

"You don't give her enough credit," Molly said, putting a finger under Clara's chin to lift her head up. "Why do you think she comes in here every day you work?"

"She wants to get more of her stuff back?"

Molly gently smacked her upside the head. "Harriet wants to see you. If she wanted to divorce you, why would she come back here, the last place she knew you worked, every single day, looking for you? She would have given up and just called you if she wanted something stupid."

Clara blinked at her. "Harry still loves me?"

"She at least wants to stay near you."

Clara stood up. "I have to find her. I need to set this straight."

"Yes, good!" Molly looked like an eager puppy.

"I need to tell her to stop and that we both need to move on."

The pathologist shook her head rapidly. "What?! You love her! And she obviously feels something for you!"

Clara smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. "I'm done with feeling stabbed every time I wake up without her next to me. I'm done with missing her. We need to find new people, it's best for both of us." She began to walk away.

Molly grabbed her hand and yanked her back. "Don't. You love each other, and you both really can't function well without each other."

"But I don't want to be in a codependent relationship."

"Codependency is someone assisting the destructive behavior of their partner. You don't assist Harry's drinking, and you have an otherwise healthy relationship. My grandmother drank and my grandfather didn't assist her. He, in fact, helped her recovery." Molly gave her a stern look. "You and Harry can be the same way. Now calm down, and finish your shift."

Clara looked at Molly for a long time. "Thank you."

The pathologist smiled. "You're welcome, Clara." Molly picked up her groceries, including the hydrogen peroxide, and went to check out. Clara headed into the break room to apologize to Kate. She wasn't doing her job, and although she was infinitely better now, that didn't enable her to break contracts.

"Kate!" she called into the room. "I'm sorry I took so long. Molly and I..." Clara stopped short when she got inside. On the chair laid a woman Clara hadn't seen in months.

"Harry," she whispered.

Her hair was mussed, eyes closed, and she looked like she was sleeping soundly. Clara smiled a little when she remembered how Harry slept like the dead. Someone, most likely Kate, had put a blanket over her. She stared a few minutes longer, just rememorizing her ex-wife's (?) face, and then went back into the main portion of the store. Kate had to be around here somewhere.

Clara found her in Aisle Ten, helping someone find the frozen meals. "Hello," she said, flashing a smile at the customer. "May I speak with the manager for a moment?" The man, wearing a dark coat and blue scarf, blushed.

"Sorry, Tom," Kate told him. "Can you find everything on your own?"

"I think so," he replied.

"Hey, Tom?" Clara suddenly said. "There's someone I want you to meet. In the line for checkout, you'll find a pretty woman with her hair in a braid. Her name is Molly." He nodded, but looked pretty confused. "You'll like her, I think you'll hit it off."

"Alright. Thank you." Tom headed over to check out, his hands nervously folded around his basket.

Clara smiled. "I think it'll work out," she told Kate.

Kate gave her the Stern Stare. "I had to drag your ex-wife into the break room because she was too tired to stand. For the sake of everyone involved, you should do something about her and do something for yourself."

Clara held up a hand. "Molly and I had this conversation. I'm going to try this for a little while. I'm sorry that it interrupts everyone's lives."

"It's alright." Kate smiled slightly. "Go get her. Maybe you two can be civil after all this time."

Clara smiled back and smoothly went back to the break room. It was nice feeling like Kate cared more about her than the work. Refreshing. The door to the room was still ajar, Clara not having closed it when she left the first time. Harry hadn't moved a muscle, it felt like, not a joint shifted nor a hair out of place. She carefully tiptoed forward, making sure her shoes didn't squeak on the floor. When Clara finally reached Harry's side, she knelt next to the sleeping woman. Harry looked more like a girl while asleep, though. Clara remembered that.

* * *

In Harry's really fuzzy mind, since she wasn't exactly awake, she could vaguely hear someone come into the room. Wherever she was. The person was quiet, like keeping her asleep was important. Obviously, Johnny's crazy boyfriend didn't share that opinion!

Soon, there was a warm spot next to Harry's arm. Not the blanket, but human warmth. It smelled like perfume, like cherry.

Wait, it couldn't be cherry. Clara had moved on, there was no reason why she would be here. So, not-cherry.

"Hi," the woman whispered. "I'm going to tell you a secret. But I know you won't hear me." She ran a soft hand up Harry's palm. "You can't get rid of me that easily. I still love you, despite everything that we've been through." The woman laughed. "Maybe because of what we've been through. But we'll work this out." She leaned down and kissed Harry, not enough to wake her, but enough to make her mind take notice. The woman wore lipgloss too.

...

When Harry woke up, the manager of Tesco stood over her. "It's closing time. You need to leave now, sorry."

Harry blinked a few times. "What time is it?"

"Around nine pm." Yes, five hours of sleep!

"Okay. Thanks for letting me use your break room," she said, slipping off the blanket and standing up.

"Just don't make a habit of it," Kate answered.

Harry walked out and smiled, but as she did, she felt a stickiness on her lips. Taking a sniff, she could smell the tiniest amount of cherry. Cherry lipgloss. Weird. Maybe someone pranked her.

* * *

Clara walked out of her shift with a little less lipgloss on than she started with going in, and a sense of hope that she and Harry would be alright.


	13. 21:00

Harriet didn't come back to 221B until 9 pm. John fussed over her, but Sherlock knew she'd just fallen asleep during her latest excursion to Tesco. "Well, I'm still freaking tired," she said, "so I'm going to go to bed early, if that's alright with you two gentlemen."

Sherlock nodded, turning back to his experiment. Molly had brought over some hydrogen peroxide earlier, which was one of the reasons he knew Harriet had been  _detained._ He'd purposely sent Molly over to talk to either Clara or Harriet and attempt to remold and reform their marriage.

For some reason that probably involved John, he didn't like seeing Harriet unhappy. She deduced that he was unhappy, which was so uncommon, John had only done it a few times since he'd been here. Harriet was more like her brother than she thought. She wanted to make sacrifices for other people, she was relentless, and didn't give up. Of course, Sherlock wasn't going to mention this to either sibling, for fear of a massive row. His head was aching a little, and he was sure it would get worse if prompted.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

He turned back to her. "Yes, Harriet?"

"Thank you."

He smiled. "You're very welcome."

She wiggled her fingers in a goodbye wave of her hand, and went upstairs to the spare room. Harriet had gotten tired of sleeping on the couch, and she told Sherlock privately that she wanted him and John to have their space (at this, she winked, and Sherlock didn't understand that).

Sherlock watched her go with the smile slightly fading. She didn't know that their relationship wasn't real, but she was perceptive, so shouldn't she have picked up on it? Sherlock's brow furrowed a little. And, he still was working on why Moriarty hadn't hit Harriet with the Memory Toxin, as he called it. Harriet knew about him and his impact on John's life, so why hadn't she been targeted?

Maybe Moriarty didn't think she was important, like Molly.

Oh, Moriarty was clever, but not as clever as Sherlock! He laughed quietly, turning back to his experiment and putting it in the fridge for the night.

"Darling? What was that about?" John moved forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind.

"I guess I gave her hope that she and Clara would work out. Because Harriet didn't leave her wife because she was unhappy, she left because she knew she was making Clara unhappy. She's rather sacrificing." He moved John around 180 degrees to face him. "Much like you," he breathed, hoping John wouldn't hear.

"I sacrificed a lot in the war, but you didn't know me then," John said. "Is that what you mean?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up in an almost-smile. "You're asking the correct question, but I can't give you the correct answer. I'm sorry."

John ran a hand over Sherlock's shoulder, a finger tracing its contours. It was like he was mapping out Sherlock, as if he were a new and foreign land just being discovered. "Okay." He kissed Sherlock lightly on the cheek. "Mystery Man."

"Am I a mystery?" Sherlock wondered aloud. "Is that why you stay? Because I'm a puzzle? Is it because I'm different? Because I know there's a gun in your bedside table and I'm not frightened or repelled by it? Why  _do_ you stay?"

John just looked at him calmly and pressed another kiss to his temple. "Somewhere in my head says I need to. It says I need to be here."

"But do you want to be here is the question." Sherlock couldn't comprehend why John would want to live with a high-functioning sociopath,  _date_ one, and not know who they really were. He didn't understand that, and he detested not understanding.

The doctor smiled (when did he ever stop smiling at Sherlock?) and made a line of kisses up Sherlock's jaw. "I want to be here. You have something I've never seen before that I quite like. You won't get rid of me that easily."

Sherlock hummed, tapping the rhythm of a new song on John's neck. The music came faster and faster these days, flitting through his head like atoms through space. "I can't be rid of you. You seem to be my new addiction, and as you are much healthier for me than cocaine or cigarettes, I'll just have to keep you."

John looked up at him. "You were addicted to cocaine once?"

"He took it away. I didn't need it anymore." Sherlock shifted his gaze. "But when I...left...I went back to it, but then I told myself he would have hated it, so I quit, for good. I deleted all the names of my dealers, and their contact information. I was quite thorough, but I knew if something came up, I would find it again. But I found you instead, and you are very permanent. You, John, are a different sort of addiction. It seems I can only exchange one addiction for another."

"But I can't hurt you, at least."

Sherlock's face broke into a slightly wistful, slightly bitter smile. "He never meant to either."

John leaned forward when he heard this, carefully, elegantly taking Sherlock's lips captive. These kisses were gentle, quiet, speech without words, music without a tune, a painting without a title, but more beautiful than Sherlock Holmes had ever encountered. He wondered, just then, what could have happened had he let his best friend in.  _Maybe,_ Sherlock thought,  _it would look like this._

Soon the press of lips upon lips overtook all of Sherlock's outer senses. His mind palace stored no recollections or even formed memories of what he saw in the dilating of John's pupils, the erratic beat of his heart, the heat that spread through both their skins, but this emblazoned itself in every corner, making itself unable to be deleted. Sherlock could keep that forever.

The scene sped up, John's hands moved everywhere, Sherlock's mind engraved the details of the lines of feeling John tracked up his limbs, and the detective's last thought before he sunk deep below the surface of illogic and want was that he was doomed again, but he didn't care.

* * *

John woke up an hour later, curled around Sherlock. Their bodies were entwined like the curves of a mandala, John and Sherlock and Sherlock and John until he barely knew where the detective ended and he began. Close. So close.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," he murmured, but Sherlock didn't stir.

* * *

Sherlock's subconscious knew that he needed to have conscious thoughts, so he woke, not an hour and a half after. He unwound himself from the doctor, knowing exactly which movements to make as to not disturb him, taking just the sheet, and leaving the comforter that he rarely used behind. The flat was entirely quiet, only the sounds of London at night fuzzing their way in. Sherlock itched for his violin again, for the music that could organize his thoughts.

First things first: a list of the facts.

Sherlock and John weren't drunk, nor high; they were both fully sober when they had...slept together? No, too undefined a term. Had sex? Sounded ugly to his mind, which was rebuilding, since John had the unintentional habit of running through the palace hallways like a madman. Made love? Sherlock winced. No, it wasn't that either. It really couldn't be, for a variety of reasons. Oh well, he'd find something that fit.

He moved his experiments over to the fridge, all of them, even the heated ones. Heat. Lots of heat. Sherlock mentally slapped himself. He was here to make himself a cup of tea, and wander around London for an indeterminate amount of time until his thoughts could be controlled.

Sherlock set the kettle to boiling, making sure to watch it carefully so it wouldn't whistle. He got out his favorite kind of tea, mint, and the sugar, which he sprinkled liberally in the cup before taking the hot water off the stove and pouring it and the tea in as well. John always made better tea than him, probably because Sherlock calculated his drinks, while John was perfectly imperfect about the whole endeavor. He drained the entire cup, even though it scalded his tongue and throat, hoping for the unpleasant sensation to drown out his thoughts.

As soon as he put the cup in the sink, rinsing it out, as he was sure someone would appreciate, Sherlock walked slowly to the thankfully vacated couch and sat down, rearranging the sheet around himself. His and John's relationship was surely never going back to the way it used to be. Now that  _this_ had happened, an entirely unmeant, accidental thing, John was either going to make him leave, since Sherlock had promised they were just  _pretending_ to date,  _pretending_ to be in love, which turned into a complete lie for the detective, or... Or...

Sherlock's brow furrowed. There seemed to be only one option. Sherlock had broken his promise to John and however much John did, Sherlock was still at fault. John was always the good, kind, sensible one that never hurt anyone, and Sherlock had a recurring habit of running through the streets of London destroying things in his path to the cases' ends. It was obvious what was going to happen, if he thought back to the beginning.

Sherlock made a decision: he was going to leave before John had a chance to leave him. He was going to save everyone involved a great deal of pain, except himself, but that didn't matter at all. As he searched through his mind palace to make sure there weren't any other options, John walked into the sitting room.

He was fully dressed, in a shirt Sherlock had seen many times, but the combination of the jeans and shirt was the same as...some other night. Well, day. John didn't look at Sherlock awkwardly, like he thought he would, but with a sort of laughter in his eyes. Childlike. Sherlock blandly noticed he'd left a pile of his clothing on the coffee table, a black . He grinned slightly, looked Sherlock over, down and up, and down again, where the grin widened slightly.

Sitting next to him, John said, "Are you wearing any pants?"

"No," Sherlock answered cautiously.

And, somehow, John began to laugh. It sounded very nice, better than music Sherlock could create, but he had no idea why John was laughing. Wasn't this situation serious at all?

"Ah, in Buckingham Palace, okay." John laughed a bit more, and then said, "I'm seriously resisting the urge to steal an ashtray."

Wait.

* * *

_"Are you wearing any pants?" John had obviously been plucked straight from the hiker case and the windblown quality of his hair suggested in a helicopter._

_"No," Sherlock answered._

_A moment passed, and the two men burst out laughing uncontrollably. "In Buckingham Palace, okay," John said, breathing heavier. "I'm seriously resisting the urge to steal an ashtray."_

* * *

John was remembering.

"John?" Sherlock asked. This was purely for data collection purposes, he told himself. "Do you know who Irene Adler is?"

The doctor looked like he was wracking his brain. "The name sounds familiar, but I don't know it. Why?"

Sherlock leaned over John and wrapped his arms around the shorter man. "Is something wrong, Sherlock?" John asked worriedly.

"No. It'll be gone soon." The detective held John close to him, knowing that he wouldn't remember for long. There were things that needed to be said to this John before the other John that he undoubtedly screwed everything up with came back. "You know, I love you. It may seem like I don't every time I hurt someone, but I do. Don't ever forget that."

John pulled him back. "What is this all about? Are you drunk? I've never seen you drunk, but have you drank anything strange? Maybe the guards slipped you some sort of sedative."

Sherlock sighed. "Of course, you see but do not observe. No smell of alcohol on me, and I just told you something I've never said to a single other person. Please believe me."

Ever the medical officer, John began to examine Sherlock, making him stick out his tongue and running a flashlight back and forth in front of his eyes. "John, this is unnecessary."

"No, it's not. This isn't like you at all, and it's worrisome."

"John," Sherlock said, putting as much feeling into it as he could.

John stopped analyzing his supposed symptoms, but was in the position to go back to it. "What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock quickly sealed his lips over John's, softly, trying not to scare him. "I'm sorry for everything I'm going to do to us." He stood up, taking his sheet with him, and escaping into his room. He prayed John wouldn't follow him, and slid down to the ground in front of his door, knees to his chest.

Huzzah, now John wondered what on Earth was wrong with him. "That's why I apologized, John," he whispered, with a single, hysterical laugh that came with a single tear. He suddenly felt so exhausted. Sherlock really needed to sleep, especially since it was better than any other options at that point. The cigarettes were gone anyway.

* * *

Harry heard noises from below soon after she went to bed. She grinned inwardly; her brother, although a bit uptight, was quite the fox. His boyfriend had fallen prey to the traditional John Watson seduction. She fell asleep after the noises stopped.

When she woke up again, in the middle of the night, she knew something was up. Harry didn't know how she knew, but she needed to go down the stairs. Peeking through one of the little holes in the door, mostly from acid explosions, Sherlock had told her, she could barely make out the detective guy in just a sheet while her brother sat next to him. "In Buckingham Palace, okay. I'm seriously resisting the urge to steal an ashtray."

Sherlock looked cautious and hopeful, but he choked the hopeful to ask Johnny, "Do you know who Irene Adler is?"

Harry did, nearly melted at the name, but John shook his head. "The name sounds familiar, but I don't know it. Why?" Harry was in far too much of a daze to hear what happened next, something about Johnny wondering if Sherlock had gone nuts, but she did hear the last part.

Sherlock kissed John like he wasn't supposed to, like there were warning signs all over him. "I'm sorry for everything I'm about to do to us." He stood up and went off, John in total shock. Harry used the spare key to open the door and let herself in. So this wasn't about Irene Adler, dammit.

"Johnny?"

John looked over, surprised, and not really happy to see her. "What are you doing here? I thought you were getting a new flat. Did I even tell you where I lived?"

Harry shook her head. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that man really does love you, whether your thick head chooses to accept that or not. And if you've done anything to hurt him, you're hurting yourself more." She stalked out of the flat, slammed the door, and went back upstairs.  _That'll show him,_  she thought, crawling under her covers again.

* * *

John woke up on the couch, fully clothed, with a terrible feeling in his chest. This wasn't where he fell asleep.


	14. 06:00

When John woke up, the first thing he noticed was how artificially warm he was, without body heat, and he found he didn't like it. He looked down to see he was completely dressed, and on the couch. Okay, there were a lot of things strange about that. As John remembered what had happened the night before, he flushed.

He and Sherlock...holy bloody hell. Those were images he really didn't want to get out of his head.

As he attempted, and failed miserably, to collect his thoughts (and possibly censor them), he realized exactly what the night's activities could have meant to Sherlock. John had obviously done something wrong in the time between... _that_...and the morning, which explained the couch. Sherlock was getting over someone, someone important and valued to him, and he probably thought John had taken advantage of him. Ugh. John put his head in his hands. He'd made a mess, hadn't he?

Well, no use worrying about it, Sherlock would definitely say something about what happened when he came out of his (their) room for breakfast.

John stood up, straightening his clothing and walking into the kitchen. A pot of very cold tea sat on the counter, but John had no idea how it had gotten there. He dumped it out into the sink and filled it with new water, setting the teapot on the stove to heat up. Heat. Bad thing to think about. John shook his head like a dog, trying to clear it. Damn, this was a lot harder than he thought. Hard.  _Shut up, John_ , he told himself.

At around 6 am, a tall, sheet-covered body entered the kitchen. His curly hair was messier than usual, and he looked ruffled and like he hadn't gotten much sleep, three hours at most. "Good morning, Sherlock," John said, making his voice as nonchalant as he could. And friendly. Very friendly. He really didn't want to scare Sherlock off.

"John." Sherlock sat down at the table and pulled his sheet tightly around him, like a security blanket. Although, it didn't change the track of John's mind. God, he'd never noticed how Sherlock's suits hid how muscular his arms were, and his legs, mostly his thighs, and  _John was crossing far too many boundaries._  "Do you know what we did last night?"

And the blush was back, in full force. "We...er...engaged each other sexually...and I woke up on the couch. Um..."

"I'm sorry," they both said, eyes widening in surprise as they heard the other.

"You go first," Sherlock blurted, nervously fidgeting with the tablecloth.

"No, you go first," John replied, reaching across the small table to put a hand on the detective's shoulder. He looked Sherlock calmly in the face, knowing that calmness generally helped things like this.

"Alright." He paused. "Last night, I encouraged you to have sex with me, even though our agreement promised we wouldn't be doing anything beyond the grounds of pretending. I broke a promise, and I apologize for that. If you want me to leave, I will."

John stared at the suddenly small-looking detective.  _He really thinks that_ , John thought to himself. Sherlock really thought he was in the wrong here. He thought he'd come on strong and John had given in to his seduction. But giving in was easy, easier than anything John had ever done. There was no misunderstanding or awkward pauses, or fumbling for purchase. John had never gotten that in any relationship he'd ever had, and there had been  _a lot_ of them. Sherlock was  _special_ , so very special that John wondered how the man could have thought he hadn't wanted that just as much as Sherlock did.

Wait, so John wasn't the only one who wanted that? It shot wildfires up his spine.

"No, Sherlock, that's not what I want at all." John slid his chair closer to him, trying to ignore the scritch-scratch sound it made on the kitchen floor.

"Why not? I did break our deal, and I pride myself on keeping my oaths." Sherlock didn't understand, did he? John almost had to smile.

"Darling," Sherlock winced briefly at the endearment, "I wanted it, too. I wanted you, and you wanted me. That's how it works, sometimes." John brushed one of the detective's stray curls away from his face. "You wouldn't be the only one at fault, if there was any fault to place. It was both of our choices to make love, and it will always be both of our choices." He pecked Sherlock's forehead. "If this was a one-time occurrence, that's alright, whatever you're comfortable with, but if not..." John leaned down to softly kiss the detective, this time on the lips. "I want to show you  _everything_."

Sherlock and John looked at each other for an uncountable amount of minutes, Sherlock cataloguing the details and burning them into a new room of his mind palace so he would never forget, and John reading the lines and slopes of his face like they were a never-ending mystery novel. Both men drank the other in as if they needed this to live. And Sherlock did need it, but John didn't know he did too, yet. Just yet.

John pressed his lips against the detective's, slowly slipping his tongue in. Sherlock met him, movement for movement, fingers winding through John's short hair, and pulling their heads closer together. John's hands were laced behind Sherlock's neck, reaching up after a little while to twirl one of the detective's curls around his finger. They didn't take it any further. Besides, neither one of them wanted to do  _that_  before eating. Sherlock was hungry, for once.

"Now, what do you want for breakfast?" John asked, standing up to grab the teapot. It was a little colder than he would have liked, but he'd heat it back up.

"I have a certain fondness for your pancakes," Sherlock answered.

The doctor smiled. "Alright. Pancakes it is, then. Would you be totally against waking my sister?"

"No. I find her much more tolerable than many other people. Maybe it's because she's your sister."

John's eyes creased in those laugh lines Sherlock had missed so much. "Are Watsons some sort of special breed of detective-approved human?"

"It appears so." Sherlock stood up and left a small kiss on John's cheek before heading up the stairs to what was apparently Harriet's room.

* * *

Harry woke up to the sound of knocking on her bedroom door. "Ah'm cooooommin'," she slurred, shuffling over to the door. When she opened it, her drowsiness immediately went away.

"Holmes."

"Yes, it's me. May I come in?"

Harry made a beckoning gesture, turning to sit on her bed. Sherlock, wearing only a sheet, sat on the chair across from her bed. "Alright, what the hell happened last night? Please explain in  _detail_. I may be an alcoholic, but I'm not stupid."

Sherlock pressed his hands together in a weird praying position under his chin. "After you came home and went to bed, John and I talked for a little while. Talking led to-"

"Doing each other, I know that part."

The detective guy blushed really deep. "I woke up afterwards with every intention to leave, as I broke the promise I made to him the day we found you."

"And what promise was that?"

"I..." He closed his eyes. "I wanted him to pretend to be my boyfriend. I promised that it would be just pretending, nothing serious until I'd gotten over someone."

What the hell? "So, wait. You were using my brother to get over my brother?" Sherlock nodded. "That man last night, the one you kissed, he didn't know about any of this?"

"That was John from a different time. He was sent back to that time and place, as you could probably tell from the Buckingham Palace idea. He's getting his memories back, memories of the time I was a part of his life."

Well, that was a new concept. "Who stole my big bro's memories? He was obviously miserable without you, dead or alive, so we need to get them back."

Sherlock looked almost surprised Harry figured everything out. "A dead man. His name was James Moriarty, and he targeted us many times. But when he killed himself, he knew I'd either jump off the roof and die, hurting everyone I cared about, or live, in which case he would make them forget the person I had become, or in John's case, me. Either way, he got what he wanted."

"You have the strangest enemies," Harry remarked.

Sherlock glared at her. "Proximity is apparently a trigger for the memories to come back, as we learned last night."

"So, my brother will sometimes be thrown back in time-"

"Not literally, of course," Sherlock cut in.

"But he'll get his memories of you back eventually."

The detective nodded. "He will. He'll probably want to hurt me, to leave me, but I deserve it. Especially after last night."

"But you love Johnny! And he's alright with how all of this has been going." Harry crossed her arms. Consulting detectives could be absolute idiots about the simplest things. Jesus.

"I do. But he's only alright with this now. After, he won't want anything to do with me." Seriously? How the fuck could he think that?

"Okay, you need to pull yourself out of that fucking well you dug yourself into. Ever think that maybe my brother is falling in love with you?" Saying it was worth the look on Sherlock face. "He's not just going to throw that away when he remembers exactly who you are. Johnny may not be the best with temper, I'm not either, but he would never do that to you. And even if he isn't in love with you," Harry walked over to him and put a hand on his head, "he feels too much for you as a friend to let you just stroll out of his life."

Harry waited until he looked up at her. "So, I won't have to lose him again?" And God, didn't that make her little alcohol-poisoned heart pitter-patter. He loved her brother so much it made her want to hug him.

"No. You won't have to lose Johnny ever again."

* * *

Those two were taking forever. More than half of the pancake batter had been turned into pancakes, and his sister and boyfriend were nowhere near the kitchen. "Hey, you two!" he called up the stairs, after he was sure the new pancakes wouldn't burn. "Breakfast is ready! Your chummy talking can wait till later!"

Sherlock came down first, his sheet not having moved at all. John wondered if he had a clip that he used to hold it in place. Harry looked far more chipper than she usually would be. She was not at all a morning person. "Mornin', Johnny," she said cheerfully, practically skipping to the table.

"Morning," John replied quizzically, looking over at Sherlock. Of course, he was a brick wall when it came to answers.  _My brick wall_ , he thought happily. "I'll get out the fixings."

"Chocolate morsels?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course, darling. What're the magic words?"

The detective suddenly stood right next to John's ear. "Let's make love again," he whispered, his voice seeming to drop an octave. Did Sherlock know the complete power that voice had over John? Oh never mind, of course he did.

"Again, the words I was looking for were 'yes, please'." But those other words were very nice as well.

"You seem to respond better to other things," Sherlock said with a smirk. John fake-glared at him and grabbed the chocolate morsels from the cabinet. The detective pounced on them eagerly.

"Well, if you learn the words 'yes, please', then maybe there'll be something in it for you." Sherlock liked this idea, John could tell.

"Perhaps I'll learn them sometime."

"Well, right now, you should be focusing your attention on the food your lovely boyfriend just made you." He pecked Sherlock on the cheek.

John realized how easily this could become his life. Crime-solving, Harry living with them until she had some spot of luck, being with Sherlock all the time. Mostly that. He could fall into this, and never come back. He wouldn't care at all if this was everything he knew for the rest of his life.


	15. 15:00

Sherlock knew something was wrong when John started checking his blog for cases. And he wasn't at the clinic working. And he wasn't casually touching Sherlock or even speaking to him at all. Sherlock had almost forgotten what it felt like without John coming up behind him and hugging him, calling him darling (he still thought it was sexy), kissing him. He felt  _empty_ , now that he knew where things could go if they both just tried it. 

John was stuck in the past again. 

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock tried to look as uninterested and cold as possible. John could read him better than anyone, so he had to be careful what he showed to him.

"When was the last time you ate?" Common question, what answer should be used?

"Yesterday," he lied, knowing John would be suspicious if he said morning.

"Morning or afternoon?"

"Pancakes," he replied.

John gave Sherlock an exasperated look. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Pancakes."

He rolled his eyes. "What would it take for you to answer my question correctly?"

"For one, I did. For two, at this stage, you don't want to know what I require as payment." Sherlock was surprised to see John wasn't letting this go. And he wanted a kiss, but it was an awfully terrible thing to think about when John had no idea about any of their previous more desirable activities.

"I think I know what you want, Mr. Tight-Lipped. Literally." John smiled. Why would he be smiling, for any reason? It didn't make any sense. Then again, nothing in Sherlock's mind palace made sense when it came to John.

"What would I want? This is quite the opportunity to work on your deduction skills." Sherlock saw John move forward, but almost couldn't register it. He had to be dreaming, this didn't happen in his pre-suicide life.

"You want something from me specifically. I see the way you've been staring at me lately, like I have something you crave but can't reach. It's maddening, it infuriates you, but you're scared. Why would you be scared of me?"  _Or you are the something I crave,_ the detective thought, almost laughing at how ironic and positively insane the situation. And, of course he was scared? How did you explain to a memory-blocked version of your best friend and boyfriend that you wanted to kiss him and touch him and generally make a fool out yourself telling him your feelings without being scared?

Sherlock could feel his eyes tightening. Damn,  _how had this happened_ _?_ He was so careful, he made  _certain_  he wasn't giving away any clues. "But what do I want?" This was more than just about the pancakes now. Ugh, and pancakes were so simple compared to this mess.

John reached a hand out, but Sherlock shrugged away from it. This was wrong, in this time, in this place. John wasn't supposed to know; he would leave Sherlock, and that would be the end of that. "You want..."

"Oh,  _please._  Don't just leave me hanging after that little speech," the detective said scathingly. "Spit it out."

The doctor raked the outstretched hand through Sherlock's hair, effectively shutting him up. "Let me finish." When Sherlock gave him a confused and slightly betrayed look, John grinned devilishly (again, sexy) and added, "Your brother told me it was the easiest way to calm you." He paused. "And I can see you're now planning the murder of Mycroft."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock pouted.

John gave him the Captain Look. "You are stubborn, more so than anyone I know. If you wanted something from anyone, you wouldn't hesitate to tell them that. The mere fact that you're avoiding this makes it a more sensitive subject than I originally thought. And since it has something to with me, you won't make this easy."

" _You're_  making this quite difficult," Sherlock muttered, trying to sound like his normal self. Failing.

"There you go again," John huffed. "What will it take to get it out of you?"

"And you call me stubborn."

John smiled. "Love..." Sherlock winced at the word. That was not Boyfriend-John, he was not allowed to do anything. Nothing like the lovely things coming to mind with Sherlock's eyes on that mouth. "If you don't want to tell me, I'm okay with that. But, I like knowing things about you that also have to do with me. For the record, I honestly have no idea why you keep me around, so that would be nice to know."

Sherlock couldn't help it: his mouth fell open. He tried to skirt around most gestures that looked unintelligent, but this was John, so it didn't matter. "How can you not know?"

John looked surprised. "You're not exactly the most open of people. The things I know about you, you've told me."

Sherlock shook his head. "John, John, John, John." He said it disapprovingly, but he also really liked the name on his lips, the way it sounded. "Have you ever seen someone tolerate me, like me, pay attention to me as much as you? Don't even answer that, you know you haven't.

"You, John Watson, are my sounding board, my mirror, my lens. You help me see what I'm missing. I've told you this before, how can you be such an..." Sherlock searched for a not-incriminating word, "illuminating person and not remember that?"  _I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you_ , he chanted to himself. He  _could not_ say it aloud, no matter how much he wanted to.

"But I'm just a normal person," John said.

And oh, was that the most incorrect thing to say to Sherlock Holmes at that precise moment. "No, you're not," he managed to get out without screaming that  _if John was normal, Sherlock wouldn't have so stupidly fallen for him!_  "Whomever has told you that told a grievous lie, indeed." He swept off into his bedroom, resisting the simultaneous urges to strangle and jump the doctor.

John, looking after the detective, was very confused. There was no real reason why Sherlock would show that much emotion in respect to the army doctor, especially since he thought of himself as quite normal. Had he gotten too close to a truth Sherlock didn't want him to know? Was Sherlock nervous about something more impacting than a question about when he'd eaten? John face-palmed. Of course he was.

What did Sherlock want?

John put his face in his hands, thinking. This was very important, but he had no clue why or how. Something about him and Sherlock made the detective uncomfortable, but he didn't know whether that was the closeness, or how close they had yet to get. John knew Sherlock was 'married to his work', John knew he'd had a huge number of girlfriends, John knew he was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend. But, the common frustration, what the hell was it supposed to mean?!

It was like Sherlock had laid all the puzzle pieces in front of him, muddled up and in the wrong spots, and asked John to put them together three-dimensionally. Something was going on in Sherlock's mind, and John would try his damnedest to figure it out.

* * *

John went out to grab takeaway not long after that strange conversation. He took a cab to Angelo's, fidgeting in his seat. The cabbie, in fact, asked him to stop, because he was being distracting to the driver.

Relief washed over John as he walked inside the familiar restaurant, smelled the Italian food. "Hello?" he called, approaching the counter.

"Oh, hello, John! How's our detective?" Angelo asked loudly. John sometimes wondered if that man had a whisper voice.

He felt a weird emotion fill him when Angelo called Sherlock 'our detective'. John wasn't sure if it was the sharing of the genius or the affection that got to him. "Sherlock hasn't eaten since yesterday, and I was thinking I'd surprise him with food."

Angelo nodded. "Your usual, then?"

"Yes, thank you."

The bigger, louder man headed into the kitchen to tell the order to the staff, and then came back out to John. "I'm pretty tickled you two crazy boys got together. Makes an old bloke like me happy."

Okay, what? "Er, yeah." John decided to play along for the moment. He'd be out soon, anyway.

"Going on dates where you actually admit you're dating? That's just lovely, that is. You were such a gentleman." Angelo sighed, and John was halfway between running outside without the food and laughing. "And the kiss was sweet, too."

Hold up. Kiss? John's mind was ticking a million km an hour with no clear stopping point. How had this happened, and when? Was John drunk? Had he gotten a hold of Sherlock's drugs? He was sure he'd remember that. Kissing...Sherlock. The thing that caught him the most was that he wasn't against kissing Sherlock, he just wanted to know everything before that. Why did they go out on a date? Who had asked whom? When had they done that?

"Well, I'm glad you think so," John replied, his voice wavering, and cursing his nonexistent ability to lie.

Angelo went back to the kitchen and returned with two takeaway boxes in his large hand. "Enjoy, and tell Sherlock hello from me!"

"I will, thank you." John left the restaurant as fast as he could without looking like a robber.

* * *

When he got back to the flat, he found Sherlock laying on the couch, a nicotine patch gracing his forearm. "Hi," John said, announcing his presence to the close-eyed genius.

"I smell you've brought Italian food from Angelo's. Did he have any comments to bestow?"

John hovered above him with the boxes, really not sure what to tell him that wasn't a lie. "He says hello and enjoy."

Sherlock's eyes flashed open, and he sat up fluidly. "My usual?"

"Chicken alfredo," John answered, smiling slightly and handing him the box.

"Thank you." So, Sherlock was saying thank you now? Not that John was complaining, it was really nice, but seriously, something wasn't entirely right.

John and Sherlock dug into their meals, staying silent for a little while. The doctor was absolutely bursting with the strange things Angelo had said in the restaurant, but he didn't want to interrupt Sherlock eating, which didn't happen nearly enough as he would have liked. When Sherlock was three-fourths of the way finished with his chicken alfredo, John opened his mouth to ask about it, but the genius spoke first.

"There's something I'd never understood," Sherlock started.

John couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "Really? I would love to hear about this."

Sherlock glared at him and ate another bite of his pasta. "I couldn't comprehend why people need to be remembered by everyone. Most people accomplish nothing lasting in their pathetic lives, be it physical or fundamental. True changes come rarely; everything in our minds is the same as it was one hundred, five hundred, one thousand years ago. Jealousy, greed, lust, brief moments of happiness, but it means nothing. We are like candle flames, and we burn out as easily. How can people be expected to remember a single fire out of billions?"

The doctor watched him closely for a moment. "You said  _couldn't._ "

"What?"

"You  _couldn't_  comprehend why people need to be remembered." John wouldn't let Sherlock's eyes stray from his. He wasn't giving up that easy. "But you understand now, don't you?"

"What if I just deleted it?" Sherlock looked quite uncomfortable, but John wasn't done yet.

"What if I'll get it out of you anyway?"

Sherlock suddenly smirked. "You're learning from me."

"So much that I won't let you change the subject." John was confident he had the consulting detective in a corner. Of course, Sherlock knew that would never be true.

Sherlock leaned quickly forward to kiss John, and moved almost faster back. The doctor's eyes were wide, and getting wider by the second; the genius had to reassure himself that John wouldn't recall any of this when the other John came back. He forced another lopsided smirk on his face and said, " _Darling,_  I need you to remember me so that I know I have a heart that hasn't burned yet."

* * *

When John opened his eyes, he looked at the clock on his mobile. Not long after a dinner of sorts, if the takeaway boxes were any sort of evidence. His boyfriend had loud classical music on in the kitchen, since he couldn't play the violin and clean at the same time. Wait, Sherlock was cleaning?

"Sherlock, why are you cleaning the kitchen?" he called.

Sherlock yelled over the music, "I'm cleaning because you deserve a night off. You bought dinner, it's only fair I finish the process."

John stood up and went into the same room as his boyfriend, placing a hand on the counter. "You don't have to do that."

The detective fixed the doctor with a tired look that reminded him of the Lestrade man he'd met on Harry's kidnapping case. "Yes, I do." He kissed John softly, and then continued his activities.

While John wandered into the sitting room, contemplating what the gestures meant, Sherlock banged his head once on the cupboards. He wasn't sure how long he could last like this, hiding from old John, hiding from new John. He'd learned lying to the army doctor was always worse than telling the truth.


	16. 02:00

Clara didn't sleep well most of the time. It was her fault, but she didn't have insomnia, or sleep apnea, or anything like that. She was used to having another person sleep next to her, and it was usually a bit not good if she didn't.

She'd slept around in the upper grades and college; waking up in someone else's bed was nothing she couldn't handle. If people thought she was a cuddler after  _activities,_  they weren't wrong, and Clara didn't care. Other people were her weakness, not their expertise or preferences. In fact, she'd camped out in a  _boy's_ room after a particularly long night.

When she was younger, it wasn't a problem. She was an only child with a single mother, and her mom never minded company. The two of them would plan and dream about life ahead before crashing in the bed that could still hold one more person. It wasn't a big deal when she was a child, and her mother was still there.

Of course, Clara's mom got a boyfriend after a few years, and Clara forgot about good sleep. But she managed, and that was the only thing to matter.

After college, Clara tried to get a flatshare, but luck was entirely against her. She somehow got a job at the local Tesco being sleep-deprived and alone. Those first months, calling Irene Adler every once in a while, and putting on concealer to hide her eye bags, were the hardest she'd had in a long time.

And then, miracle of miracles, Clara met Harry Watson.

Harry was pretty in an unusual and hard to spot way. Pixie-cut brown hair, friendly face, laughing blue eyes. Clara completely forgot her exhaustion, the bags the woman surely saw under her eyes, and realized what it was to be smitten. If she believed in love at first sight (which she was trying to deny to this day), this would have been it.

Clara wasted no time asking Harry out and remembering how to sleep. She did both things before her conscious thoughts could catch up.

Their relationship progressed really fast, so fast that normally Clara would worry she was a part-time shag and Harry would dump her as soon as another girl passed by. But she didn't. Clara barely knew it before she and Harry were sharing a bed, a house, a family. That first night, with the two women wound around each other like clock gears, was the best Clara had ever had. She was blissfully happy, and she could sleep long and deep for the first time in forever.

The marriage was so easy in the beginning. Clara and Harry stood across from each other, exchanged vows and rings, and Harry's older brother looked on with pride in both of them. John had always liked her, and after everything went wrong, he was the one to help.

Harry began drinking, and then Clara's life exploded.

Sleep became difficult again, Harry staying up in the living room for hours into the night. She smelled like alcohol all the time, and Clara tried to make her stop. She tried the rehab places, she tried hiding the liquor, she tried threatening to leave once, she tried and tried and tried. But she failed. Harry and Clara, once so easy, were now hard, and Clara didn't know what more she could do.

Her mood swung back and forth like a pendulum during those final days, ecstatically happy one minute, furious later, and depressed another minute. Harry kept asking if she loved her, and Clara kept answering yes. The bottles disappeared, and the bottles came back. Harry would cry for hours, drunk off her arse, and Clara would cry for hours, perfectly sober. Sleep was out of reach, and Clara had never wanted it more.

When Harry left, things got better and worse at the same time. Sleep was still out of reach, Clara pulling all-nighters every other night, but the alcohol was gone, and the mood swings went away. And Harry, the one person Clara was absolutely certain she loved, was gone. It almost didn't matter what she'd done (Clara still hadn't forgiven her, for the record), but life without Harry was much worse than life with her.

Of course, Clara wasn't going to give up. Life would get better, she convinced herself.

Harry eventually came to Tesco every day Clara worked and begged her to take her back. Clara had changed shifts, so she didn't know about it until Kate, her supervisor, got tired of it. Harry showed up every day, at 10:00 am precisely, and wandered through the aisles for six hours, taking a break only for lunch. She was loud, people told Clara, and disrupted the customers, but no one ever got close to getting a restraining order for her.

Only once did Harry ever come at the wrong time. At four pm, she showed up, looking drunk, but actually too sleepless to move the way that swept Clara into many a blissful state. She told Kate she'd been going through files with her brother's boyfriend for hours, and once Clara saw her, she knew Harry wasn't lying. Harry was tired enough that she couldn't move without falling over. Kate managed to drag the woman into the break room, where she would surprise Clara.

Clara saw Harry laying there, looking so beautiful and small and harmless, and decided she'd give the Watson a second chance. They both were miserable, and that wouldn't get better without the other to help them.

The kiss she planted on Harry's lips allowed her to fall asleep easier that night.

Now, a few days later, she laid awake, staring at the ceiling, not functioning well enough to work on anything for the next staff meeting and too cognitive to lull herself into drowsiness. She wondered sometimes why she hadn't gotten into bed with anyone else after Harry left her, and then answered her own question in a loop. The clock read 1:59 am, and turned to 2:00 before her screen shut off.

Suddenly, Clara's mobile buzzed. It wasn't the email tone, so who would be texting her at this hour? When she heard the tone again, and again, she realized someone was  _calling_ her at this hour. Since it could be anyone from a stalker to her boss, Clara tapped her fingers on the bedside table until the very last tone, when she slid the bar across the bottom of her phone screen to answer it.

"Hello?" she whispered. No one lived in her immediate vicinity, but it was a habit to stay quiet.

"Hey, baby," a familiar voice answered. "I'm drunk, and exhausted, and my brother screwed up, and screwed his boyfriend, and I'm not sure this isn't a dream since you probably changed your phone number, but I wanted to hear your voice, so yeah." Harry sounded so beat-down. Clara couldn't help but talk to her.

"What's this I hear about your brother having a boyfriend?"

Harry laughed, quickly shushing herself, and then laughing again. "His name's Sherlock Holmes, and he's a fancy detective. You heard about him maybe in the paper? He got caught in a deerstalker hat  _once,_  and now people laugh at him." She paused. "He's a good guy, hotter than the sun. Would've fucked him if I wasn't into you." Clara noticed Harry said 'into you' rather than 'into girls'. Stupid two am brain. "Holmes is good for Johnny, good to him. Johnny deserved someone like Sherlock long before he got him."

Harry fell silent, and so Clara prompted, "And what about all the screwing?"

"John doesn't love Sherlock right now, and made some pretty clear signs he didn't in front of Holmes. And he did it after having sex with him,  _and_ he doesn't remember. The idiot part, not the sex. He remembers the sex. Holmes'd better be more forgiving than me, because what Johnny did wasn't right." Harry didn't speak for a moment. "If you're not Clarabella, I'm sorry to bother you."

Clara melted at the name. Why did Harry have to use it? It didn't exactly help the Stay-Strong Clara mode. "It's okay, really. Do you need any advice?"

"I just can't tell John what Sherlock told me. Sherlock has been in love with him since the beginning, I'm sure of it, and John used to be in love with Sherlock before the weird crap with Sherlock's suicide started, so now I've got two men living with me, neither of which are going to say the L-word to each other, and the sexual tension between them doesn't go away even after they have sex." Harry paused. "Clara?"

"Yes?"

"I still love you."

Clara smiled sadly into the phone, but she knew Harry couldn't see her. "Really?"

"I may be drunk, but I'm not stupid. I mean, I'll probably forget I made this phone call, but it doesn't change the fact that my life is nothing without you. I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you."

God, Harry sounded so serious, and Clara was trying to find any reason not to believe her. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. I had someone amazing and beautiful and sexy and smart about feelings, and I let her go because of an addiction I'm still too weak to beat. You shouldn't forgive me, but at least try to understand that I'm sorry and I love you, and I'll take anything you can give me."

* * *

Downstairs in 221 Baker Street, both the men Harry was talking about woke at different times to hear different parts of the conversation. John heard, "...now I've got two men living with me, neither of which are going to say the L-word to each other, and the sexual tension between them doesn't go away even after they have sex," and "...No, it's not. I had someone amazing and beautiful and sexy and smart about feelings, and I let her go because of an addiction I'm still too weak to beat."

It kind of swung a lance through John's heart when he realized he did love Sherlock, and he wasn't going to let him go because of something like this experiment. It wasn't an experiment anymore, and both of them knew it. John just wanted to be the one to say it first.

Sherlock heard a very separate part of Harriet's conversation. "Sherlock has been in love with him since the beginning, I'm sure of it, and John used to be in love with Sherlock before the weird crap with Sherlock's suicide started..." Wait. John loved  _Sherlock_  once? Him? He never remembered seeing any sign John felt the same way back then. Did Harriet have the wrong idea? Did she simply want to push them together?  _Was she right?_  "...You shouldn't forgive me, but at least try to understand that I'm sorry and I love you, and I'll take anything you can give me."

Sherlock burned the last sentence into his mind. After his fall, he figured out he was asking too much for John to forgive him. He'd done something horrible, and then lied about it. John really  _shouldn't_  forgive him, but Sherlock would take anything he could get. Without John, he was nothing.

Both men made up their minds, and went back to sleep, neither one of them realizing the other had woken.

* * *

"Okay," Clara murmured. Tears were streaking down her face, from the words, and from Harry being so far away.

"Okay," Harry said. "I'll let you sleep now. Even if you're not Clara, thank you for listening."

"You're welcome." Harry hung up the phone, and Clara put her own mobile back down on the bedside table. Harry still loved her back. She actually fell asleep that night, and didn't wake up until ten am. Maybe it wasn't a person sleeping beside her she needed. Maybe it was just Harry.

* * *

John curled around Sherlock. He whispered, "I really love you."


	17. 11:00

_November 25_

_So, I found this empty journal in a drawer in my dresser. Sherlock thought I should write in it, since it looked like the type of thing I would do. It's strange, I feel really good writing, like I was meant to. That sounds ridiculous, but it's true._

_Today, Sherlock and I went to a crime scene. He complained that it was only a five, but I knew he needed the case. He needed to chase someone, and we both needed to get out more. Seriously._

_There was a break-in, a bank break-in, but no one knew how the person had gotten in or out, since they had left no trace of anything that could be followed, including security camera footage. Of course, the Yard put Sherlock Holmes on the case, and he...He's amazing. I don't think anyone told him that enough before I met him. Even the friend he can't tell me about. I hope his friend saw in him what I see. The intelligence, the complete smart-arse, the beautiful man I fell in love with. I really hope that, wherever that man is, he thinks of Sherlock. Even if they hurt each other._

_Anyway, I'm off-topic. The perpetrator had left a scratch or something near the highest window, and a part of a web address spray-painted next to a painting of an old man that had the same yellow paint across his eyes and another strange symbol next to him. Sherlock evidently recognized something about the place, from another case, he said. I just went along with it. He rattled off the perp's height (about 180 cm), gender (balance of probability: male), occupation (ex-military, something about the gunpowder streaks), and reason for breaking in._

_Sherlock said that this person was trying to taunt him, and he knew who planned it. Same person as the one that kidnapped my sister. "James Moriarty is a spider. He's dead, but he'll play these games, weave another web, until he decides to stop, and none of us have control over that but him. He likes to laugh at me."_

_"You'd think he'd have his share," I said._

_Sherlock just laughed bitterly. "You have no clue. He's not done yet, but for now, we can put his man behind bars." What did that mean, I had no clue? Had this man done something else to Sherlock without me knowing about it? I still don't know what it means, but Sherlock will tell me when he can._

_He knew of a place where the perp, someone named Sebastian Moran, would be hiding out. Another joke for Moriarty, apparently. A pool._

_I'd seen the pool before, as if it was deja vu. It seemed sinister, but I couldn't have said why. The man standing by the side of the pool held a jacket in his hands, a jacket that looked like it had explosives taped under it. "Bet you didn't see this coming."_

_Sherlock glared at him fiercely. "Are we really going to do this again? You're a very childish man." It wasn't one of his usual glares, there was something ugly behind it, maybe sadness, hurt, anger. I couldn't tell, and it frightened me after all the time I'd learned to read him._

_"What would you like me to make him say next?" Moran laughed, loud and long. "You're a machine!"_

_None of this made any sense to me, but Sherlock knew everything he was saying, like he'd replayed it in his mind or something. "Your master is dead, and you have no reason to be doing this. Cease, and maybe your prison sentence will be less than twenty lifetimes."_

_Moran shook his head. "You need to finish it, again. Otherwise I'll keep hurting people. Him, too. You were so very unfair."_

_"Sherlock, what does he mean?" I asked. Moran had ignored me, and I didn't understand that._

_"John," he whispered, but he didn't turn to look at me._

_"Come on, honey. You know how this is going to go. You_ know. _You just don't want to go back to that time." That didn't sound like Moran at all, actually, it sounded like someone else had written him a script._

_Sherlock suddenly straightened, appearing to shake out his tensed muscles. "Goodbye. John." He beckoned me, and we left the building. Moran just stayed there, hands up. The Yard filed in, cuffed him, and took him away, while we got a cab._

_"I did what he wanted me to. I ended it how...how he and I ended it." Sherlock wound his fingers through mine and kissed my knuckles. "Moriarty is smart, using him against me. But I have you."_

_Of course, I learned from Harry's phone call to Clara that I really do love him, but that, just that simple gesture, I knew I was done. I am his, and I will be forever._

_JW_

* * *

**Sherlock, we need milk. -JW**

John sent the text message from his office, while a rather difficult patient with an imaginary disease that John had proved wasn't there countless times trotted out, but not before threatening to sue. Not exactly the best day.

**Which one are you? -SH**

John raised an eyebrow at his screen. Sherlock didn't know very many people, especially not people he texted.

**What do you mean? If you really don't feel like going to Tesco, I'll go. -JW**

**What about Harriet? -SH**

Why would Harry go to Tesco? And since when did Harry even know who Sherlock was, much less meet him?

**Harry hasn't spoken to me in a while. And Tesco? Why? Are you okay? -JW**

For some reason, John could feel Sherlock rolling his eyes through the words. Sometimes he could feel it, more so when he was there and just had his back turned to the detective. Sherlock was like an open book to him most of the time, but of course, he never said anything about it. If Sherlock had gotten that good at hiding his feelings, there must have been a reason.

**I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I can feel you worrying, and you don't need to. -SH**

John stared at his mobile. Who was this person, and what had he done with Sherlock Holmes? It was nice, him caring about John like that, but seriously, something wasn't right. He began to pack up his things to go home early, telling Sarah on the way out that he would make up the extra hour tomorrow. She gave him a funny look, but he didn't catch it.

John hailed a cab outside the practice, and told the cabbie to head for 221B Baker Street. "Where's your boyfriend?" she asked, grinning. Her nametag said Liz with a smiley face next to it.

The doctor's first instinct wasn't to say he wasn't gay, for this one time. "He's at home."

"Y'all make a cute couple. Nice to see more of us around London, especially as close as you two look."

"Thanks," John replied. She really didn't seem psychotic, so John didn't mind talking to her. Unlike that other cabbie, the crazy one with the poisonous pills. "You're not the first person to tell me that."

"Cool. I'm not the only sane one here." Liz laughed. "Anyway, we should get you home."

John nodded, turning his head to the window. This wasn't just Angelo then, other people had seen them together like a couple. But, the problem with that was John didn't remember any of that kind of thing happening. Before he asked Sherlock about it...ugh, it was blurry. They'd eaten takeaway, but then... He'd probably figure it out later.

When the cab pulled up to the door, John stepped out, tipping Liz a bit more than he did most cabbies. She was pretty nice, and wouldn't try to flirt with him like most women over the age of thirty. Geez, he should hang out with lesbians more often. Being hit on got kind of old, especially since Sherlock would scare the women off after maybe three dates.

He quietly slipped into the flat, hoping Sherlock was playing the violin. The detective hadn't played the past couple of days, and John missed it a lot. Not that he would say so. Sherlock would laugh at him.

Inside, John saw Sherlock's tall figure stooped over the stove. It smelled like sweetness in the kitchen. "What're you making that you need milk?" John asked, standing behind him and trying (read: failing) to look over his shoulder to see what was in the pan.

Sherlock turned around. John was first struck by how close the detective was to him. Mere centimeters of space hung between them. Second thing: Sherlock was wearing jeans. And a soft-looking t-shirt. Tight. Jeans. John had to take a few breaths. When had Sherlock lifted weights? Or done any sort of upper body exercise? This was news. Third thing: there were streaks of white powder on Sherlock's cheek. And the stuff in the pan looked like pudding.

John couldn't stop himself from laughing. "Pudding? That's why you needed the milk?"

"Yes," Sherlock said haughtily, reaching his hand back to continue stirring the sugary mixture. "It's..." Sherlock paused. "It's for Mrs. Hudson's birthday. So, you might attempt to be more quiet."

John stared at him in disbelief. "Really? How did I not remember that?"

"It's fine, John. I had it in my mind palace, so I just thought..." Sherlock shrugged.

John had the sudden urge to do something, so he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and hugged him. "That's really cool of you. Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me? It's not your birthday," the detective pointed out. He sounded surprised.

John pulled back a little and looked Sherlock in the eye. "It might as well be." He smiled. "Now, how about I start making a cake? I'll find my recipe."

He walked up the stairs to his room, knowing he left his cake recipe in a notebook somewhere. When he dug through his drawers, he noticed a journal on his dresser. John sighed, flipping the thing open. "It has to be here somewhere," he muttered.

He didn't find the recipe.

The journal had one entry, dated the day before. John had never seen the journal in his life, but there was an entry, in his handwriting, with his signature. It had Sherlock in it, with a case. A case that Sebastian Moran was in. Had The Great Game pieces, and The Blind Banker, and one line that John didn't recognize.

The part that struck him was how in love he was with Sherlock.

If this was really yesterday, what had happened? Why couldn't John remember being in love, moreover, with Sherlock? He would never say this, but he missed being in love.

John hadn't really been in love since his girlfriend Grace. She was beautiful and perfect in every way, and John had been utterly smitten. Of course, that was before she cheated on him, and asked for expensive things, and took his virginity. He didn't stay with girlfriends much after that.

John knew that people were as shallow as Grace everywhere. He knew it, so he didn't try to get very close to his other (numerous) girlfriends. Sherlock...well, he was different. John had never been scared to get close to Sherlock, even after that whole thing with the pool and the Semtex. Sherlock had saved him when they met, and he kept saving John every day. Why  _shouldn't_  he fall for Sherlock?

Plus, Sherlock was by far one of the sexiest people John knew. He laughed aloud.

He closed the journal and set it in the drawer, rummaging around a bit more before unearthing the cake recipe. It had gotten a little crisped, since the last time he used it, Sherlock was doing an experiment involving burning plastic. John smiled, shutting his drawers and leaving his room.

"Hey, I found it," he said. Sherlock turned and grinned.

"No birthday celebration is complete without cake. My dear brother knows that best of all."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. His diet. Come on, if you can make pudding, you can sure as hell help me with this cake."

* * *

Hours later, the boys woke up on the couch, flour-covered and smiling. Sherlock was curled around John, and John didn't mind it. If he fell in love with Sherlock, it would probably be the best thing to ever happen to him.


	18. 20:00

Sherlock stared at the birthday cake for a full minute.

"Love, the thing isn't going anywhere. It's not like it's going to be abducted by aliens anytime soon," John joked, pressing a kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Worrying about an alien abduction is irrational," Sherlock said. "I'm wondering how it will stand up while we're bringing it to Mrs. Hudson's flat."

"We can make her come into ours, darling. Besides, since it's my fault its stature is compromised, I gave you an idea to fix it." John turned Sherlock around in his arms. "Why are you worrying?"

Sherlock wouldn't look John in the eyes. Last time he'd tried the whole birthday party phenomenon, well, he, by anyone's account, failed completely and totally. Not that this John would know that, but still. "I did, well, tried to do a birthday celebration for him, and then realized I'd gotten the wrong date and didn't know how to bake anything edible. That was the day I decided to learn how to do this sort of thing, but by the time I could..."

John hugged him close. "It's okay. I'm here to help you this time." God, why was John being so nice about this? Sherlock messed up his birthday once, and jumped off a roof before he could set it right. Not that his lovely boyfriend remembered, but Sherlock knew too well.

"When is your birthday?" Sherlock asked. He had to get the date correct. The space in his mind palace was very disconcerting.

John grinned. "We'll get to that after our landlady's." Sherlock's face immediately fell. John really didn't understand the importance of the venture. "Come on. We have a person to lasso. Who wants to be late to their own birthday party?" He dragged Sherlock by the hand down the stairs.

Sherlock huffed. "How exactly are we going to go about this?"

John leaned forward to kiss Sherlock firmly on the mouth. "How I say so."

"You have no plan, do you? You're a terrible liar, John, I would know. Let me 'reel her in' as those Americans say."

The doctor laughed. "When did you have contact with Americans?"

"It is a long story," Sherlock replied, knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Hello, boys," she said, opening the door mere seconds after Sherlock knocked. "Would you like some biscuits? Fresh out of the oven." She looked happier than usual, Sherlock thought. Intercourse with that baker next door again perhaps? But no flour on her dress. Hm.

"No, thank you. Actually, I was looking for some cleaning chemicals. I spilled the bag of thumbs Molly gave me, and we don't have sufficient supplies to clean it up," the detective lied.

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Sherlock, you're going to run that lovely boy of yours out of the house with your antics." She shook her head disapprovingly. "I need to see the damage to know what I should bring." Sherlock was blushing before she had even finished speaking.

John grinned cheerfully. "He could never run me out of the house, Mrs. Hudson. I love him and his gorgeous body far too much to leave over a bag of spilled thumbs." Wait...rewind.

_I love him and his gorgeous body far too much to leave..._

_I love him and his gorgeous body..._

_I love him..._

Sherlock mentally berated himself. That couldn't be what John really meant, they were both lying to get Mrs. Hudson into the flat without suspicion on her part. Of course, his logical thought process had no line to how red his cheeks were turning. Damn John! Stupid..

John led Mrs. Hudson up the stairs, Sherlock trailing behind. "Come up here, darling. You need to show her the damage." A little twinkle appeared in his eyes as he looked at Sherlock. No, he was imagining things. John messed with his mind on the best of days.

"Alright, John." He stepped to the front of the little group, striding into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson followed, arms crossed, but when she entered the kitchen, her face softened.

"You boys remembered my birthday?" she asked, putting a hand over her mouth.

"It stuck in my mind palace," Sherlock said, suddenly feeling awkward. "We didn't do very well on the cake, since we were a bit preoccupied while it was coming out of the oven." John giggled, and Sherlock glared slightly at him. "But, we did succeed in producing a tasty confection. And pudding." He paused, shifting his feet. "Surprise."

Mrs. Hudson walked forward. "This is very nice of you, Sherlock." She hugged him, and although he didn't expect it, it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. "Thank you so much for thinking of me." Mrs. Hudson turned to John and hugged him as well. "And John, you as well. It's a very pleasant surprise."

"You're welcome," John said. "Now, how about we reap the fruits of our labor?"

"I'll get the pudding," Sherlock added. "Feel free to sit in my chair, Mrs. Hudson." Harriet would be back soon, and then she could sit in John's chair and himself and John could sit on the couch. The perfect arrangement.

"I'll come with you." John matched Sherlock step for step until they reached a spot where Mrs. Hudson couldn't see them, and then John ambushed him.

Gentle kisses floated up Sherlock's throat and jaw, making their way to Sherlock's lips. Only a few kisses involved the tongue, but everything in between was very, very good, too. Sherlock asked himself where John had learned all this, and then turned away from that topic, because it had to do with the thousands of women John had dated before him. Deleted. He wondered if those same women would, as they say, 'eat their hearts out' if they saw the man kissing Sherlock now. "Any particular reason...ah...for this sort of treatment?" he asked.

"Does a man need a reason to kiss the hell out of his amazing," kiss, "genius," another kiss, "sexy as fuck," loooonnngg kiss, "boyfriend?" John looked at him with sparkling hazel eyes. "Because, I don't think so. Do you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I do not. However, the birthday woman may object to the pudding not coming very fast."

John pulled away. "You make a fair point, my love. Let's go." He picked up the giant bowl of pudding and headed out into the sitting room. "We came with pudding, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Thank you, boys," she said. John grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer and handed it to her. She served herself, and Sherlock served her a slice of cake after that. He had always had a fondness for Mrs. Hudson. She never called him a Freak, she never threatened to kick him out of the building, she even accepted the severed limbs, which was quite novel. Plus, Mrs. Hudson took care of him a lot more than he took care of himself. He owed her for that, and for keeping John alive until the memory-loss serum kicked in. She helped John and himself, and if she left Baker Street, London would fall.

A knock sounded on their front door. "Hey, are y'all having a party without me?" Harriet called, poking her head into the flat.

"It just started," John said. "Come on in. We made cake."

Harriet strolled inside, and Sherlock noticed the lack of alcohol smell, and notably clean clothes. "What happened to you?" he asked bluntly.

She smirked at him. "Nice to see you too. Actually, I'm off alcohol. I know I can do it this time. You will help me, right?"

"Being a former cocaine addict, I will do my best," Sherlock replied, a rare smile crossing his face. "Now, you should have some cake. It's your brother's recipe."

"Oh, big bro!" Harriet threw her arms out and hugged John. "You are so wonderful. It's no mystery why Sherlock loves you!"

John's eyes widened to the approximate size of teacup saucers, and Sherlock was sure his did the same, but John didn't say anything. "Alright, which one of you can get me some cake?"

* * *

Harriet had left for her room a few minutes earlier, saying something about leaving them to more pleasurable activities than talking to her. Mrs. Hudson had winked at them before leaving, taking the leftover cake. Now, Sherlock and John were alone, and Sherlock had no idea what to say.

"You might be wondering," John started after several awkward moments, "why I didn't ask you if what my sister said is true."

"It did cross my mind," Sherlock replied, laying on the couch, an arm slung over his eyes. It would be easier to take the rejection while not standing. Why did Harriet have to say that? John would leave now, no matter all the nice things he said to Sherlock daily. This was never meant to be permanent anyway, there was never supposed to be love again. Sherlock tried so hard not to tell John every second of every day they spent together how he truly felt, but it appeared to have been done for nothing. And soon, he'd be back in 221C, or much farther away.

"Well..." John sat near him according to the dent next to Sherlock's legs. "My little sister has always been able to judge feelings: love, specifically. I don't know whether she can read me, she's never told me anything like that, but she can read you, apparently, through all the masks you wear." Sherlock felt a finger trace his bottom lip.

"Get to your point," Sherlock whispered.

John didn't answer him. "John, I can't take the silence. Tell me I'm kicked out, and get on with your life."

But John simply lifted up Sherlock's arm. "How could you think I would kick you out?"

"It's only logical," Sherlock breathed, his voice hitching. "I asked you to do this as an experiment, and I was never supposed to love you. I'm sorry my feelings got in the way of the original purpose, they were never meant to."

"Sherlock..." John said, shaking his head. "Did you not catch the comment I made after Mrs. Hudson said you would run me out of the house?"

" 'I love him and his gorgeous body far too much to leave over a bag of spilled thumbs'? But you were just giving credence to our story!" Sherlock was very confused now.

John sighed, long and deep. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe I was telling the truth? You said it yourself, I'm a terrible liar. Why would I lie about loving you?"

"Because I already fucked it up once, and you were kind enough to provide fake reassurance concerning my lack of birthday aptitude," Sherlock answered blankly. He was past the point where swearing was undignified. Sherlock was so stupidly confused about the signals John sent that he could barely process the situation.

The doctor laughed almost hysterically. "Why can you not understand when someone cares very much for you?"

"I've only had one friend, and only one boyfriend. I don't know how relationships work very well." He really didn't, this was just one of the few times he would admit it.

John leaned forward and softly kissed Sherlock. "I love you." When the detective didn't reply, lips parted in his version of gaping, John continued, "I think I knew much earlier than now, but couldn't name it. You are everything to me: heart, mind, and body. It doesn't matter how we started, what matters is what we do right now."

Of course, Sherlock's eyes took that moment to begin streaming tears. The doctor kissed them away, but more and more kept forming and falling. "Shh, love, I'll take care of you, don't worry," John whispered as the two men began kissing for real. Sherlock tasted like saltwater, and John slid on top of him.

"I've loved you since...I don't know. Maybe the first time I saw you, or the crime scene," Sherlock murmured. He was telling the truth. He'd loved John since the lab, when they first met, or the pink lady's murder, or Angelo's restaurant, or when he realized John killed a man to save his life. Sherlock didn't even remember, because it was so sudden. "I love you, John Watson, more than anything."

John smiled. "Glad we're in agreement then." He made a move to slip off Sherlock, but the detective pulled him back down.

"You're not going anywhere." Sherlock slid his tongue across John's bottom lip, much like John had done with his fingertip, and threaded his hands through John's hair. The doctor made a little noise that vibrated through Sherlock's whole being, causing him to gasp out, "I want you."

John looked Sherlock directly in the eye. "I want you too, but not here. Can we go...?"

Sherlock pushed John off of him and stood up, guiding John by the hand behind him to their bedroom. When they reached the door and shut it behind them, Sherlock grinned. "You know I wore the t-shirt and jeans precisely for your benefit."

"See? One of the reasons I absolutely adore you," John replied, rising on his tiptoes to peck Sherlock's cheek.

"I adore you too."

John smiled back. "I know, darling."

* * *

When Sherlock woke up after the second time making love, he didn't feel like he needed to run. He didn't need to take a long walk through London to clear his head. His head was clearer than it had ever been. He wrapped his arms tighter around John, and fell back asleep.

* * *

_John looked up to the top of the building and nearly dropped his mobile. "Sherlock? I don't care how you got up there, I'm coming."_

_"John, stop right there! Don't move!" John couldn't see Sherlock's face very well from this far away, and he hated it. He knew how this was going to end, he'd had this dream before, but now Sherlock was a part of it._

_"Alright." He held up his hands. "Alright." John could feel tears falling already, and Sherlock hadn't even jumped yet._

_"Since I obviously can't come down, we'll have to do it like this."_

_"Do what?" John asked, his voice failing him toward the last syllable._

_"Ah..." Sherlock was crying too, but that was just part of the dream. Sherlock would be okay, this wasn't real. It felt pretty damn real, though. "This phone call...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

_"When what? That's what people do when what?" When they're going to leave you behind, John thought. The tears fell faster now, and John was very close to completely breaking down._

_"Goodbye, John."_

_"No. NO!" Sherlock dropped his phone without ending the call, spread his arms like wings, and stepped off the roof. John ran forward, but he knew what he was going to see when he reached him. The wind, the coat, the body of the man he loved._

_"Please don't leave me," he whispered._


	19. 03:00

_"Sherlock?" John questioned._

_"Yes?" There was something in John's tone that Sherlock didn't like, but he didn't press much further into it. He knew that having all of John's memories back would be a..._ surprise  _to say the least, so Sherlock was fully prepared for any questions John might have, and any moods that may change. Mainly the loving, sexual ones._

_"How could you do that to me?" Sherlock winced. "How could you leave me like that, and then come back and take advantage of me? There were lines I thought you wouldn't cross, but obviously I was wrong about that. Pretending to love me? Dating me? I've never been into men, and yet, you thought you could play one of your games and change me? I was right before you died, you really are a machine."_

_"I'm sorry," Sherlock whimpered. He was trying so hard to keep his voice steady, but none of it was working. Sherlock wanted to shrink away from that_ look  _John was giving him, the disappointment and anger and frustration and betrayal and disbelief._

_John shook his head. "Sorry doesn't cut it. I can deal with the dead body parts in the fridge, and the constant deductions, and the violin at all hours, but this? This is unforgivable."_

_"I-"_

_"No, shut up." John rounded on Sherlock, appearing to grow a meter, towering over the detective. "You don't get to speak. I'm done with you, I'm done with the crime and chases and shootings and lies and fake emotions." He picked up a bag at the doorstep, but didn't seem to bend over or get smaller. "I realized that I was really better without you. So, I'm leaving. If you try to contact me, or if your brother does, I'll kill him and get a restraining order for the remaining Holmes sibling. Do I make myself clear?"_

_Sherlock nodded, tears swelling in his eyes. He blinked them back. John's last image of him was not going to be a weak, crying man. "Yes, John." He bit back the sigh that erupted from him at the name._

_"Great." John stormed from the flat, leaving his key on the floor._

_Sherlock was well and truly broken now. If he thought his death was heartache and pain in a very large snowball, this was an avalanche. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, he couldn't function other than collapsing on the ground and clutching John's abandoned key to his strangely empty chest. His heart had burned out, and a smoking hole was left behind. His ribs were exposed, lungs barely expanding and contracting._

_He'd never died before this. This was true death._

* * *

Sherlock woke up with tears pouring down his face. Sobs wracked his body as he tried to keep them under control, and he stared at his chest for several seconds, making sure it wasn't torn open, making sure his heart still beat. He couldn't find John, he  _needed_ to make sure John was still there, still holding him, still...still loving him. Where had John gone? Sherlock couldn't swore he was right there...

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm right here! Darling, look at me!" Hands moved Sherlock's face so that he was turned a certain way. Sherlock didn't see anything. There was nothing; someone tricked him. He wasn't even in 221B, in fact, he'd never been there. He was still in that Serbian torture chamber.

They really knew how to hurt him, using John against him, using his best friend (lover)(boyfriend) to break him. Well, it worked!

The dark, the cold, (he hurt all over), the chest cavity was just that: a cavity, (why couldn't they make it stop), (stop), (stop), STOP.

And suddenly, lips were on his.

Warmth, closeness, someone was holding him, love, sweet nothings whispered,  _Sherlock, I'm here,_  and those lips belonged to...John. "Darling, shhh, it's alright, I love you, and I'm not going anywhere, so you will be okay, I promise, as long as I'm alive, you will be okay." Kisses were pressed all over Sherlock's face and neck, kissing the tears away, kissing the pain away. Sherlock had never understood the general premise used by mothers that kisses could heal injuries, but now he did. John could heal anything.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," John whispered. Just that sound wound Sherlock's limbs back around John's in the dark. Sherlock burrowed his face into John's chest, pressing his ear down to hear a heartbeat. ThuThump. ThuThump. ThuThump.

Alive.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," Sherlock whispered. Harriet was sleeping upstairs; he hoped he hadn't disturbed her, too.

"No, my love." John dropped a kiss into Sherlock's hair. "It's okay. I had nightmares like this for months after I came back from the war. They stop eventually."

Sherlock looked up at him. "You did?" As John nodded, he shook his head. "Of course you did. PTSD, psychosomatic limp, intermittent tremor in your left hand. Nightmares are common." He immediately regretted saying that, looking at John's quizzical expression. "Who stopped them for you?"

The doctor ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "I don't know. One night, I heard violin music through the flat. I stepped outside my bedroom to see where it was coming from, and I saw a man in a dressing gown playing. The way the moonlight fell on him, it looked like he had wings spreading from his back. He never turned around, and when I woke up again I thought I'd dreamed it, but there were a few pages of sheet music on the couch in the morning."

Sherlock reached up to run his fingers over John's cheekbones. "Like an angel?"

John smiled. "Yes, like my very own guardian angel. Kind of like you, actually."

The detective almost laughed. "I'm not an angel."

"Oh, of course. Not  _an_ angel.  _My_ angel."

Sherlock was about to protest, but John cut him off with a finger. "What did you see?"

He wasn't sure how he could answer that so John wouldn't know anything but also be truthful. "Shut up."

"What?"

John rolled his eyes. "Love, you're thinking too loudly. If you can't tell me, that's alright, but it's really better if you do."

Sherlock looked at John with apprehension. "I didn't see anything real. It would never happen, I can see that now."

"It doesn't matter if it was real, you still saw it," he replied.

Sherlock felt like laughing. It wasn't funny at all, but he felt like laughing. Perhaps it had to do with aftereffects of the vision (he refused to think of it as a prediction. "Look at me, John. I'm afraid. I'm so afraid of something that isn't real. He would think I was going soft."

John shook his head. "He isn't here, so it doesn't matter."

"I need to keep myself distant from it," Sherlock murmured. "From him. He wouldn't understand why it is so scary because he didn't see and interpret what I saw and interpreted. No one could ever leave him but me, and even when I did, it wasn't how my dream went." He paused. "There is something wrong with me, thinking about him when I'm with you." The old John would be back, and Sherlock couldn't think about that. He had to pretend like time wasn't ticking away to the moment John would realize Sherlock wasn't good enough for him.

"There is nothing wrong with you," John said. "He's gone, you loved him, it's normal to think about him. The nightmares come from your fears and previous traumatic experiences mixing together in a big pile of brain goo. This experience, you leaving him, was traumatic and led to other traumatic incidents, so when your brain gets a subconscious reminder of those things, it reorganizes it into something that the brain can then reanalyze." John broke off, blushing slightly. "Nothing strange at all."

Sherlock grinned. "I love when you talk medically."

"I am a doctor, after all." John kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose.

"My doctor."

"Yes, I am." Sherlock captured John's lips sweetly. This was one of the reasons he loved him. John never patronized him, or made him feel small. John protected him in his own way, with medical talk and walls of warm limbs and gentle kisses. He would never hurt Sherlock.

Neither one of them pulled away for minutes afterward, but the kiss went no further than the soft movement of lips.

* * *

John opened his eyes when he found lips on his. He hadn't woken up like this since...maybe Grace. His usual conquests left before he could make breakfast, and never woke him up when they went. So who would do this?

Sherlock had his arms wrapped around John's neck, and sat in his lap, kissing him.

Wait, rewind. Sherlock?

John broke the kiss, staring at the detective. When had this happened? John didn't even remember coming into Sherlock's room, much less in the middle of the night, much less to  _kiss him._  Yes, he was sort of crushing on Sherlock, but who didn't do that? It turned out John didn't have to say anything.

"You don't remember, do you?" Sherlock asked. His voice was so sad, like he was used to this happening, like people forgot him all the time.  _Who could ever forget you?_ John wanted to scream.

"I'm sorry, I don't." He wasn't sure what he could say that would fix things. John probably kissed Sherlock and Sherlock just reciprocated to experiment with feelings.

"I was having a nightmare, and you came in to see what was wrong. The dream..." Sherlock paused, looking down at his hands. "The dream was just fear, completely irrational fear. You calmed me down and then...then I kissed you. I'm-" He broke off. "I'm very sorry. It was sentiment-related, and I shouldn't have thrust my volatile state upon you." He made a move to stand up, but John pulled him back.

"No, Sherlock." John twined his fingers through the detective's. "It's okay."

"How, in any way, is this  _okay?_ " Sherlock didn't try to walk away, though. "You don't feel anything for me besides friendship."

John couldn't take it anymore. He leaned forward and placed the tiniest kiss on Sherlock's full bottom lip, then on his top lip, and then kissed him fully, but not long. "Do you want me to? Because I do."

Sherlock looked shocked, but John couldn't stop now. He ran kisses up Sherlock's jaw and those bloody cheekbones, and the crease in his forehead. "I want to kiss you more, but if you don't feel that way, I can stop."

The detective shook his head. "It's not you. I'll inevitably fuck this up, and I don't want you to be caught in that."

John sat back. If Sherlock used a swear word, things were serious. "I won't care. We've done enough dangerous, stupid things that nothing you do can scare me away. Even breaking into Baskerville again."

Sherlock looked at John again, with a different, more decisive expression. "If you're sure..."

The doctor nodded. "I'm sure."

And Sherlock Holmes smiled, shyly and brightly. "Kiss me."

* * *

Sherlock knew it wouldn't last. John didn't love him before, probably didn't now, he just was lonely. But Sherlock also knew that if John was taken from him again...He'd die, really and provably. He was convinced his heart would stop beating, be torn out like it was in the nightmare, if John left.

Love would be his undoing. But it didn't matter if it was John.

So Sherlock kissed him back, running his fingers through John's short blond hair. Baskerville, the second time going into Baskerville, would be the next memory, and Sherlock would help him through it. He couldn't believe he'd done that to John before, tricked him into seeing the hound. But he'd make up for it this time around.

Sherlock had so much to be forgiven for; it was unlikely to happen.

"I need to see Major Barrymore right away, so you need to search the place. Start in Stapleton's lab, see if there are any large dogs."

John nodded. It was probable that he would start with the sitting room as Stapleton's lab and Sherlock would have to make the hound noises again. God, this scared Sherlock, seeing John so scared. But it would be over and done with soon enough, and Boyfriend-John would come back.

The doctor left Sherlock's (their) bedroom, and began looking around the sitting room, sliding an invisible key card through a window frame and opening the window. He inspected the outside and inside of the window, a trail of fog coming into the flat. That would be the drug, Sherlock thought.

John closed the window, and Sherlock turned on the brightest light in the house, momentarily blinding the doctor. John then tried sliding the invisible key card back along the window frame, but Sherlock left the light on. He had to get this right. If he didn't, there was a great potential for John's brain compensating for the skewed memory and bring them all back at once, hurting John and destroying Sherlock. That could not happen, John could not be hurt anymore than Sherlock already had hurt him.

He turned the lights back off; John fumbled for a flashlight in his pocket. And this was where it started. Sherlock made rattling noises against the metal in the bathroom, and the doctor looked around. The detective screeched like a monkey, and John, startled, went back to the window, trying his key card again. Sherlock knew he had John trapped well and good.

John called Sherlock on his mobile, whispering, "Don't be ridiculous, pick up." Sherlock didn't answer. "Damn it!" He put the phone back in his pocket. John ran to another window frame to try it, but before he could, Sherlock let out a growl.

The doctor immediately stopped in his tracks. Sherlock hated this so much, but he had to do it.  _Get_ _through the next few minutes, and then you can go to him,_  Sherlock thought to himself. Only a few more minutes. John started breathing heavily, but he put a hand over his mouth to muffle it. Running to the couch, he sat on it, and mimed closing a cage door. Sherlock got his phone out and called John back.

"It's here," John breathed. "It's in here with me."

"Where are you?" Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer far too well.

"You've got to get me out of here, you've got to get me out. The big lab, the first lab that we saw." Sherlock pulled his mobile away from his mouth and growled, louder this time.

"Sherlock?" he squeaked.

"I'll find you," Sherlock whispered, saltwater making his voice hoarse. He had to stay calm, he had to stay in character. "Just keep talking."

"I can't, it'll hear me."

"Keep talking," he repeated. God, if John stopped now... "What are you seeing?"

John went quiet for a moment, staring into nothing. "I can see it." Sherlock let a few drops trickle from his eyes. He wanted to make it stop, he wanted the hound to leave. He wanted this to never have happened so he wouldn't have to see that look on John's face.

Sherlock stepped in, pulling John from his invisible cage, and evidently the memory. The doctor fell asleep in Sherlock's arms.

The detective looked down at the bundle of human beauty in his arms. There was nothing he could do now but put him to bed, and wait. Wait for all the memories to come back, wait for the fear to come back. Because it would.

Everything lost would be found. All would be returned to its original state. Sherlock fell asleep thinking of circles, and how he desperately wanted for this one to never close.


	20. 12:00

Harry looked at her phone with extreme interest. She really couldn't tell if this was a joke, but then again, Irene Adler didn't tend to joke about meeting people. Or mind-blowing sex.

* * *

_She'd called Irene a few months after she left Clara, depressed, sexually frustrated, and generally in need of something besides alcohol. Harry had heard about The Woman from a friend, in whispered tones, like Irene was some sort of goddess. And did Harry ever need a goddess._

_"Hello?" a silky voice answered._

_"Are you The Woman?" She couldn't help but whisper the name, too._

_"No, but I am her personal assistant. May I help you?"_

_Harry bit her lip. "I would like to make an appointment. My name is Harry Watson."_

_The assistant smiled, Harry could tell. "I'll be right back with my mistress." God, that lady had a sexy voice. Maybe The Woman kept her around just for that._

_"Are you related to a Dr. John Watson, perhaps?" Now, this voice was not messing around. How did Harry get so lucky to be acquainted with such sexy-voiced women?_

_"Yeah, he's my brother."_

_"He's my brother,_ madam. _"_

_Harry shivered. Damn, she was getting hot and bothered already. "Madam."_

_"Hm. Interesting." She paused. "I'll see you at 12 pm at this address." The Woman gave the address._

_"Yes, thank you."_

_"Thank you,_ madam. _Will I have to punish you for not calling me by my proper title?"_

_Harriet Watson swallowed. "Yes, of course, madam."_

_And there went the smiling through the phone again. "Goodbye."_

* * *

That wasn't the last time. Exactly seventeen times after that, Irene called her, and she came. The Woman told Harry once or twice that she was much more interesting than her brother. When Irene had met John, Harry didn't know, but if it got her amazing sex, she could afford to look the other way.

Now, after a month of absolutely nothing, Irene texted her. Said to come to an apartment, a specific one. Never the same place twice, but this was new. Harry didn't remember what was at that building, but was entirely beyond caring.

* * *

Clara glanced at her mobile for a moment, noticing a new text from one of her friends. It said that she wanted to meet at the flat Clara had recently vacated. She wasn't sure why, but it said 12 pm, like when they always met. Clara shrugged and put her phone back into her pocket.

Her shift, well, her extra shift, would be over in a few minutes, and then she could meet Irene and see what she wanted to talk about.

* * *

_Clara never went to pubs. Ever. She just didn't. However, this time, a group of her friends had dragged her along. She sat awkwardly in the corner, nursing a small shot of vodka that she hadn't touched since she'd arrived. The people-watching was fun, though._

_Her friends were getting more and more drunk, and Clara could see that two of them were almost intoxicated enough to get a room. She smiled. Seriously, how long could the sexual tension between Liz and Camille go? Will and Grant were dancing (very suggestively) for a group of girls over on the other side of the pub. Most people weren't alone, either talking to or at least cavorting with others. But Clara was by herself._

_In a few more minutes, the pub door opened. A very beautiful young woman walked (actually, strutted) inside, and scanned the room. More than half the people turned their heads to see her. Clara noticed, but didn't make a move like the twenty others. She saw that the woman was sad, and wanted to be left alone. Of course, no one else saw that._

_She turned away from the scene and drank her shot, wincing at the burn as it came down her throat. "You seem unfamiliar with alcohol," a gorgeous voice noticed. Clara looked at the speaker, realizing that it was the woman._

_"Yes, mysterious woman, you may sit next to me," Clara sniped._

_"I don't ask for permission." She crossed her legs, folding her hands over them. Clara hadn't seen it before, but the woman was wearing a very expensive, fifties-style dress, hair perched on top of her head. Yet, this woman looked nervous, like she hadn't grown into herself._

_"I can see that," Clara answered instead. "Now, what brings you to my solitary corner of the pub. I'm not as impressive as some of them."_

_"But, you are." Clara gave her a strange look. "You saw me as more than a sexual magnet."_

_"However sexy and delicious I find you, I have to respect that you need some space. Something happen?" Clara was surprised at how fast that came out of her mouth. Normally, she was as censored as a rap song on the radio._

_The woman nodded, a hardened gaze crossing her face. "A bad breakup. I'm finished with people commanding me, people trying to control me. I'm done with people standing over me. Do you know how that feels?" She unfolded her hands. "I couldn't even get off from it."_

_"Wait. So, your last partner dominated you? Were you consenting or did they...?" Clara asked, leaning forward. If this woman needed help, Clara was happy to provide it._

_"No. Nothing that bad. But I was assaulted."_

_Clara couldn't help herself. She threw her arms around the young woman that had been used like that. "I'm sorry. That's awful and should never have happened. Domination should always be consenting and your partner was a sick bitch."_

_The woman sounded taken aback. "I don't...you don't even know me and you're treating me like a friend? Why?"_

_Clara pulled back more. "Everyone deserves to be treated right, whether I know them very well or not. My name's Clara Peters."_

_"Irene Adler."_

_She looked Irene over. "If you want someplace to sleep, or some comfort, my doors are wide open."_

_Irene grinned savagely, like a predator. "Will you take me home? Show me what domination is supposed to be like?"_

_Clara took her hand. "Yes." Plus, she'd get to sleep next to someone tonight._

* * *

Clara had been friends with Irene for years now, friends with benefits mostly, until she met Harry. The first thing Clara did after meeting the short brunette was call The Woman (she'd helped with the nickname) and gush about her new crush. Irene was almost more excited than Clara, since she'd been setting the blonde up for a while.

Harry hadn't realized it, but Irene had been a part of the relationship since the beginning.

When the marriage went south, Clara met with Irene soon after, crying and unable to sleep. The friends with benefits thing became more: a very good friendship with the occasional favor. They made time to go to coffee at least once a week, just talking about anything. Things were bearable for a while, and Irene was (finally) in a healthy relationship with her secret personal assistant, Kate, who also happened to be Clara's manager at Tesco. Weird.

Clara received the text to meet at 12 pm, thinking Irene wanted to have some serious words about Harry turning up again. But, it didn't end up like that.

* * *

Irene Adler waited in the sitting room for her two lovely girls to arrive. Harriet would likely be a minute late, since it got her more punishment, which she greatly enjoyed. Clara, on the other hand, would come directly on time. It gave Irene a chance to slightly explain what she was going to do.

See, Irene was sick of her best friend and ex-wife not getting along, especially since Harry shouted Clara's name during sex, and Clara was ignoring her need for sleep and someone that loved her to stupidly avoid getting her heart broken again. Irene really did understand where Clara was coming from, but Harriet was just as miserable, perhaps even more so. Harriet was going through withdrawal concerning the blonde, and it was killing her more than the alcohol in Irene's opinion. Clara couldn't sleep and worked herself to death, taking extra shifts every single day. Besides, they loved each other. And love was worth it.

So, Irene was going to refuse to let Clara and Harry out of the flat until they had either resolved their differences and moved on, or (and Irene really desired this outcome) had gorgeous makeup sex, including Irene in the party. She wasn't picky about the differences part, but she quite wanted both of her girls on the bed, naked and glistening and treating her and themselves.

* * *

Clara arrived at the flat with a couple of minutes to spare. She quickly looked at her reflection in the cab window and then went inside.

...

Harry got to the meeting place, which, for some reason, was Clara's old building. She was wearing some nicer clothes, her usual fare for meeting the dominatrix, and almost late. Harry glanced at the clock on her mobile: 12 pm.

...

"Alright, Irene. How are you? More importantly, what's this about? I told you, I'll confront Harry...sometime."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Yes, right. Well, you're in luck today."

Clara warily stared at her. "What did you do?"

"I texted her, same as you."

She groaned loudly. "Why did you do that? I was going to do this on my own terms."

Irene laughed. "I'm quite demanding, love. My terms are the only terms I care about. Especially when you're stalling."

A knock sounded at the door. "Aren't you going to open the door, dear Clara?" Irene asked, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

Clara sighed deeply, walking to the door. Putting her hand on the handle, she turned it and opened the door.

...

Harry knocked once, stepping back a step. She thought she heard more than one voice in the room, but wasn't worried at all. In fact, a threesome sounded great. Actually, anything with Irene Adler sounded great.

When the door was opened, it wasn't by Irene, or even the potential threesome partner. It was Clara.

* * *

Clara folded her arms. "Come in. It appears we both have been tricked." Irene smirked at her, but Harry looked like someone just told her the rockets strapped to her feet were about to blast off. Harry looked pretty damn sexy, but Clara couldn't acknowledge that yet.

"Yes. I do enjoy it sometimes. I have an ultimatum for the two of you."

Clara glared at her friend. "Let's hear it."

"The hostility is unnecessary, dear. You and your lovely bride aren't leaving this flat until I say so. If you've successfully worked things out, in a way I see fit, you can go, but not until then." Irene gracefully pranced up the spiral staircase leading to Clara's bedroom. "I'll leave you two alone, but I'm going to check on you both periodically."

"Got it," Harry said numbly. Clara couldn't smell any beer or whiskey on her yet; maybe she tried to be sober when meeting Irene.

The Woman walked into Clara's old room and shut the door, while Clara sat down on the couch, patting the spot next to her. Harry plopped down, fidgeting with a cheap bracelet on her wrist. They stayed silent for a few minutes, not looking at each other.

"So," Harry said. "If we're stuck here, I need to say something."

"Go ahead."

Harry looked Clara straight in the eye. "I will never be able to make up for what I did to you and to me when I left you. No matter how many sorries I say, or how many times I kiss you, or how many times I tell you I love you, it won't change the fact that I made a horrible mistake and you should really let me go."

Clara shook her head. "You never change, do you? The whole self-hating, 'the world doesn't like me' crap because of alcoholism and a general lack of love concerning yourself. You gave me a speech like this a few nights ago." Of course, Harry said she probably wouldn't remember that phone call, but Clara had to bring it up anyway.

"What speech? When was...?" Harry suddenly got an epiphany face. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'. You told me all sorts of things, mainly that you were sorry and your brother and his boyfriend were doing exactly what we are doing, with the feelings avoidance and things like that. And you...you called me beautiful and amazing and smart about these kinds of feelings." Clara's face reddened, but it felt normal. When she was married to Harry, the brunette called her all sorts of wonderful things and it elicited the same reaction. The thing was that you never got used to being called beautiful.

People saw it in movies all the time: happy couples flinging pretty phrases at each other, but it was more than the shallow emotion they showed. When someone called you beautiful, you were done for. Every time it was said was like the first time. The fluttering in your stomach, the crazy fast heartbeat, the glow in your face, those things didn't just disappear.

"I meant it," Harry said. "You are all of those things and more."

Clara held a hand up. "You can keep up with the complements later, Harriet. Why did you leave me, and be honest."

Harry looked down. Clara thought she could see a small teardrop fall from her eyes. "When I started drinking, I didn't think it would ever get that bad. But it was a fucking downward spiral and I couldn't control it. Everything got worse and worse, and you were so unhappy, and I couldn't look myself in the mirror knowing I'd done that to you. Clara, I left because I loved you, and I didn't want to hurt you anymore." Her tone got more and more hysterical and sad and teary as she spoke.

Clara bit her lip to keep from crying too. "I will always be worse off without my Harriet."

"I didn't know that," Harry protested wetly. "I had this crazy idea that we'd get better, but I ended up a shit-faced drunk on the side of the road, and you...you obviously weren't okay. I checked on you with Kate every time I came to Tesco, before I wanted to take you back, and she said you'd picked up a bunch of shifts, and couldn't sleep, and was just functioning, not living. I was so convinced..." She broke off, covering her face to wipe off tears. Clara hadn't seen Harry wear mascara very often, so to see it running in black streaks down her cheeks really sucked.

"Come here," Clara whispered. Harry gratefully collapsed into her wife's arms, sobbing fully now. "I felt like absolute shit when you left, and John tried his best to help with a shoulder to cry on every once in a while, and Irene did her best as well, but nothing could replace you. And damn, I wanted it to. I wanted there to be some sort of something I could turn to in order to make things better, but nothing worked." She paused. "I still loved you. I still  _love_  you. So I can't let you go again. Even if you want to fix things by leaving again, it won't work. I will stay with you."

"Say you love me one more time," Harry breathed once she'd calmed down a little. "Just please."

"I love you." Clara planted a kiss on Harry's forehead.

Harry laughed. "You know, I've always been able to see when people are in love. Always. When John fell for Sherlock, when Sherlock fell for John, when Irene fell for Kate, when John fell for Grace the first time. But with you, I never knew for sure."

"That's why..."

"That's why I ask you all the time, because I'm scared I'll wake up sometime and you won't."

Clara cradled Harry in her arms for a moment. "We can't pretend this didn't happen, you know."

"Oh, hell no. But we can try to fix our marriage. We never signed divorce papers though, so technically, you're still Mrs. Watson."

Clara smiled. "How are we going to start, Mrs. Watson?"

Harry laughed. "I miss makeup sex quite a bit, but we don't have to do that for a while if you don't want to."

"Hm..." Clara slid over the top of Harry, running a finger over her wife's lips. "I would enjoy that very much."

* * *

Irene could hear them crying below, and it got her very interested in a probably inappropriate way considering the circumstances, but it was worth it.

She was just about to check on them when she heard a knock at the door. "Can we come in?" Clara huffed.

* * *

Later, when the happy couple was asleep, Irene quietly and carefully dressed as to not wake them. She really had made a good decision tricking the two lovebirds. And to make it even better, she heard Sherlock and Johnny had gotten together. The days were getting perfect again.

Irene smirked. She had a wonderful girlfriend to pleasure when she got home.


	21. 08:00

John opened his eyes and smiled at the man laying next to him. It wasn't very early in the morning, thank God, and Sherlock hadn't slept well the night before, so John knew his boyfriend was succumbing to the important need that was sleep. John softly kissed Sherlock's forehead and laid back down, curling into his previous position.

There weren't a lot of things better than waking up next to the person you loved.

With a sigh, the doctor pressed one of his ears to Sherlock's chest. His heart was beating regularly: BuBum, BuBum, BuBum; but it was more drawn out and slow. Sherlock relaxed completely when he slept, which, in John's opinion, was one of the reasons he didn't like sleeping. John knew Sherlock had been on guard for a while before they met, maybe distrustful and certainly wary, so sleeping felt like weakness to the detective. The doctor wondered sometimes if Sherlock's earlier love had helped or hurt him in that way.

John wasn't supposed to be jealous of the other man, especially since he gave up on Sherlock. Sometimes, however, he couldn't help himself. That man knew a side of Sherlock that he didn't know, the more analytic, focused, grand-gesture detective that swept into rooms quickly and left them the same way. John saw glimpses of that Sherlock occasionally, but wondered what it would be like to have him all the time.

The doctor shook his head. That man wasn't here, and this version of Sherlock was perfect the way he was. He also was sleeping, in soft pajamas, right next to John. He grinned. What did John do to deserve him?

"Morning, darling," he whispered as Sherlock began to stir.

The detective wiggled around a little in John's arms. "Mm. I don't want it to be morning. Mornings are boring. Nights are not."

"Well, you can't have nights without mornings."

"Point taken." Sherlock tried to nestle closer to John, even though there wasn't much closer they could get. "Harriet didn't come home last night."

John bit his lip. "I think she and Clara had a talk, but I don't know how it turned out."

Sherlock smirked, leaning down to press a kiss to John's jaw. "Probably satisfactory, considering she was away for nighttime, and an unusual amount of time the day before. But who knows?"

"You know something, don't you?"

His smirk grew wider. "One of my informants, who insists on talking to me even after I saved her life, told me she had intercourse with a newly made-up Clara and Harriet. I can only assume they are further 'making up' in Clara's flat."

John's eyes flew open. "Who would give you that kind of information?"

"Irene Adler."

He shook his head in disbelief. "And how did you happen to meet the most influential dominatrix in London?"

"I told you. I saved her life once."

John laughed. "Alright. So my little sister and her wife are back together then?"

"They never legally divorced in the first place."

Sherlock was so adorable. "I love you, you know?"

The detective blushed. "Yes. I love you, too."

"Now that we've started our day," John winked, "with a very interesting conversation no less, what do you say about breakfast?"

Sherlock nodded. "I've gotten quite fond of your pancakes. I believe I learned to say 'yes please'. You would be proud."

John smiled, or rather, smiled more. He didn't seem to stop smiling these days, especially when Sherlock was involved. "Good." He somehow unwove himself from the detective's grip and stood up, still connected to his boyfriend by one hand. "Now, come on. You might be able to convince me to put the chocolate in the pancake batter."

* * *

Harriet Watson woke up with her wife beside her. Immediately, a great big warmth surged through her. It was as if giant fluffy clouds surrounded the two of them, each with candied apples all over. And Clara had an aura of soft white light around her, reaching out to touch Harry underneath the sheets.

God, what kind of drugs had she been put on?

"Baby," she said. "We need to get up. My brother will be wondering where I am."

"Buu I don' wanna," Clara mumbled.

Harry couldn't resist pressing a small, smacking kiss to the top of her wife's head. "I know. I'd rather stay here, but Johnny is a worrywart by nature. You know that, too."

Clara shifted in Harry's arms, and the brunette noticed how exactly unclothed they were.  _Can't we stay in bed and take advantage of that?_

_No! Focus, Harry!_

"Clarabella, we need to get up." Harry got an idea all of the sudden. "If you do, and we explain to John what happened, then I'll do that thing I did during our honeymoon."

Clara fully woke up pretty fast after that. "You're completely right. We should go. He lives in 221B still?"

"Yep." Harry longingly kissed her wife. "But we should get dressed first. We don't want to scare my big bro or his almost-virgin boyfriend."

* * *

John flipped two pancakes with each hand, doing some serious acrobatics to land them all back in the saucepan. Sherlock laughed, making his absolutely gorgeous baritone pronounced. "What?" John asked, smiling.

"Quite impressive. Who knew army doctors could have such prowess in the breakfast process?"

"I believe you already knew that." He walked forward, standing over Sherlock. "Army doctors have prowess in other areas as well."

"Oh, I definitely knew that," the detective murmured, pulling John down to kiss him.

"Good." The doctor ran a finger over Sherlock's lips, and then went back to his pancakes. "How long do you think it will take for Harry and Clara to get back here?"

Sherlock smirked. "Thirty seconds."

John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "I haven't been wrong..." He broke off. "...very often." He shook his head. "I've only been wrong a few times. Only a few that I can think of. Maybe a few more, but I probably deleted those. Or maybe I was high. Or..."

John held up a hand. "Darling, you know I don't care about any of that." Sherlock didn't look very convinced. "I love you with all the mistakes and the flaws, because that's what love is. And I do love you. I'll say it as many times as you need me to."

"Well, isn't that just adorable!" a voice sounded from the front door. Harry waved from the opening. "Can we come in?"

John stared at his boyfriend. "I told you so," Sherlock said, the smirk back in full force on his face.

"Hey, Johnny! Have you been good to Sher while I was gone?"

The detective smiled at Harry. "Of course he has. Now, to ask the more important question, have you been  _very_  good to that blonde behind you?"

Harry blushed, seeming to stop in the middle of the doorframe before said blonde yanked her inside. "She  _has_  been very good to me. Hi, my name is Clara. You must be Sherlock Holmes. It's nice to meet you." Sherlock nodded to her. "You know, Harry thinks you've been rooting for us the whole time, even when  _we_  weren't rooting for us, and for that, I thank you very much."

Said newly-discovered-romantic smiled. "You're welcome. Any friend of John and Harriet's is...most likely a good person." John shot him a look. "John, you could have always married an assassin to fuel your adrenaline addiction. I wouldn't have tolerated that."

"Alright, I can see your point." The doctor motioned to the couch. "Now, how about you sit down, and I'll get you some chocolate chip pancakes."

Harry stared her brother down. "He made you do the chocolate, didn't he?"

John shrugged. "I can't refuse him much."

"Whatever." Clara slid her hand down Harry's waist and across her stomach, and Harry shut up pretty fast. John secretly marveled at how easily his sister and Clara fit together, like moon and stars, like the rain and the clouds. Or, as Harry used to say, like a stripper and their pole. John had always thought that description was a bit strange, though.

Sherlock looked peaceful. Like this was all he wanted in life. John wondered if he could be Sherlock's peace. He wanted to be, quite a lot. The calm to Sherlock's storm, because Sherlock was a tsunami that crashed over everyone he met.

"John?" A pause. "John, the pancakes may be burning." More pauses. What was Sherlock saying? "John Hamish Watson, the kitchen is on fire!"

John started, running back into the kitchen, and finding it very not on fire. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, why did you lie?!" he huffed.

Harry snickered. "His full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes? What kind of stupid rich boy name is that?"

"Hush, love," Clara admonished. "Your initials spell HOW."

It was Harry's turn to huff. "Yeah, yeah."

Sherlock was still staring at John like that. Had Sherlock really not told John his full name?

* * *

_"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Sherlock said suddenly. John turned around, stirring the soup in the pan with a free hand._

_"What?"_

_The detective rolled his eyes. "Do I really need to repeat myself?"_

_"No." He laughed once. "I meant why did you tell me?"_

_Sherlock looked away, but before he did, John caught a glimpse of something incredibly sad on his features. "In case you'll be looking for baby names someday." He paused. "Probably in a nice house with a picket fence in the suburbs, married to a remarkably boring woman that won't let you go on cases."_

_John frowned. "I'd still go on cases with you until neither one of us could anymore. It wouldn't matter what my wife thought."_

_Sherlock gave him a bitter little smile. "That may come closer than you think."_

* * *

"You told me it in case I needed to look for baby names," John said, not realizing the implications of what he said until Clara's eyes began to tear and Harry started jumping up and down.

"Sherlock and you..." Clara whispered, "you're going to adopt? This early? I mean, I'm very happy for you, and we'll help whenever we can." Harry smiled really wide, nodding emphatically behind her wife, having wrapped her arms around Clara's waist.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Besides, I'd ask him to marry me before we ever thought about adopting."

John's mouth fell open, the pancake he was flipping probably landed somewhere on the floor, and he stared at his boyfriend. "You'd marry me?" It wasn't that John couldn't see himself spending the rest of his life with Sherlock, it was just that he was the first man John had ever dated, and the shortest amount of time he imagined dating someone before getting married. Surprisingly enough, they'd only been together for a couple of months (two months, thirteen days).

The detective looked at the ground for a moment. "In a heartbeat."

John felt himself choke up. He didn't know what to say to that. How could he love someone do much after so little time? And more importantly, how on earth could that person love  _him back_? "Do you really mean that?"

Sherlock's face rapidly turned a cross between disappointed and resigned. "Baby, finish those pancakes, and then please come over here."

John numbly moved all the pancakes, completely cooked or not, to the plate where he'd been setting them, and wiped his hands on a towel, walking over to the couch. Harry and Clara were as jittery as teenagers that had drank too many energy drinks. Sherlock pulled John down to him so that the doctor was sitting in his lap. "How many times do I have to say that I love you?"

"A few more," John murmured. "You don't want to be tied to a veteran with an adrenaline addiction and a gun in the bedside drawer."

"You shouldn't want to be tied to a formerly sociopathic Freak with a penchant for dangerous experiments and deducing people." Sherlock ignored John's protesting expression at his use of the word Freak. "And yet, here we both are."

John grinned. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?"

"Really? You're asking me?" Sherlock looked so damn socks-knocked-off that John just had to kiss him.

"I even have a ring."

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds. Sherlock spoke up, "John, my love, if you're going to propose to me properly, you should do it within the next minute or so, otherwise I'll wonder if you're serious."

John laughed. "I'll be right back." He stood up and went into their bedroom. John did actually have a ring, but he'd been saving it for a very long time, too long. It used to be his grandmother's, before she died, and she'd left it to him in her will. John had been waiting years to give it to someone, to  _share_ it with someone, but the right person hadn't come along until now.

As soon as John saw the sapphire ring again, the situation fell on him like a brick wall. He was going to marry his boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes, a beautiful madman that had never meant to stay in the first place. But he did, and John loved him.

When had John's life become this amazing, gorgeous mess?

He looked the ring over a bit longer, cupping it in his hand. Sherlock would be wondering where he was. John walked back out into the sitting room. Clara was quietly hysterical, trying not to ruin the moment, John could tell. Harry's leg was bouncing incessantly, and her fingers were tapping on the worn leather couch.

"Oh my...John, is that...?" Sherlock had put a hand over his mouth.

"The ring? That would be correct. I needed to do this the right way." John kneeled in front of the chair his boyfriend was sitting in, putting on hand on his knee, and holding the hand the ring was in out to him. "Now will you marry me? Because I love you, and I sometimes feel like I've known you forever, and we are the best as a team, and mostly I love you." John fiddled with the wedding band, waiting for an answer. "Please."

Sherlock laughed, and God in heaven was that the most brilliant, loveable, sexy, (etc. etc.) thing John Watson had ever heard. "I would have married you without a ring, and with Anderson and Mycroft as our witnesses in a dirty courthouse." He leaned down to brush John's lips with his own. "Yes. Yes, yes and yes  _please_."

Of course, John had to pick this time to cry. "John, John, John," his fiancé whispered. "I love you."

"I still need to hear it every day for the rest of our lives."

"Gladly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally wrote this, the proposal wasn't in the chapter plans and kind of came out of nowhere. *shakes fist at characters* But anyway :) That flashback never actually happened, but I needed the full-name thing from Season Three. Timelines. They're not real.


	22. 17:00

Being a government official meant you could walk into any room and immediately command attention and respect. So why was Mycroft hesitating to enter his brother's (well, John's) flat?

Really, there was no reason for hesitation. Mycroft had important information that Sherlock had to receive. But he couldn't knock on the door any more than he could watch his brother bleed. The elder Holmes steeled himself, and raised his hand to rap on the acid-burned, badly painted, exceptionally damaged and yet still standing door that was the difference between Sherlock's perfectly intact heart and the crying mess that Mycroft comforted through the night.

So there was a reason, but Mycroft didn't ever want to admit it to himself.

"Sherlock?" he questioned, unable to raise his hand any further. "May I speak to you?"

He heard someone stand up in the room, saying a few words to the other person. When Sherlock opened the door, Mycroft didn't put any of his usual walls up. He'd rather not tell Sherlock if his baby brother could see it.

"Mycroft. What are you doing here?" Had his love for John blinded him so much that he couldn't see  _anything?_

"I wanted to see you. How is everything going?" The words Mycroft needed to say buzzed in his ears, but John had to be out of the way for Sherlock to hear them.

His brother smiled, smiled so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled. "Amazing." He turned to the doctor, who was sitting on the couch. "John, this is my brother Mycroft, who appears to be doing very well on his diet, contrary to popular belief."

John stood up and came over to the door, lacing his hand through Sherlock's. "Hello. I've heard a bit about you. Are you here for the good news?"

Mycroft could have laughed right then, laughed long and loud even when he was dying inside. He needed a drink, quite badly. "Yes, I am here for the good news."

"Do you want to tell him?" John asked Sherlock, beaming just as wide as him. "He's your brother, after all."

"Alright then, since you asked so nicely." Sherlock pecked the doctor on the cheek and said, "John and I are engaged, Mycroft. I'm surprised you didn't see it as you walked in."

Mycroft tried not to look astonished. "So that happy announcement I was expecting did happen soon after you both moved in."

Sherlock and John gave him the same perplexed look. "What does that mean?" John asked.

"Inside joke with someone who is no longer with us." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Brother dear, I couldn't be happier for you. You deserve this more than anyone. However, I came with news of my own."

"What sort of news?"

"Sherlock, can't you read it on my face? When was the last time you deduced someone?" He couldn't say it, not here, not  _now._  Mycroft was begging him to just see. There wasn't much time left for his baby brother to be like this.

"Last time Harry and Clara came over for breakfast, so a few days ago. Mycroft, can't you just tell us?" Sherlock still didn't understand. He always knew love made people soft and caring wasn't an advantage, and here was the proof, with his ignorant little sibling.

"I need to speak to you in private. And yes," he said, noticing that Sherlock was going to suggest he tell them both at the same time, "you alone."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with sudden realization. "I'm coming. We can talk in John's old room."

"Thank you. John?"

"Yeah?"

Mycroft smiled sadly. "I'll bring him back in a few minutes. Don't worry."

* * *

"Mycroft, what's this about? I thought you were going to leave me alone when it came to John," Sherlock said as he closed the door behind them. Mycroft sat on the bed, trying to ignore the twinging in his stomach.

"I had to come. It's actually about your dear fiancé."

Sherlock frowned. "What is it?"

Mycroft looked up at his still standing brother. "Everyone whose memories were taken by Moriarty has them back now. DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan, and Anderson all remember John and the past two years, including your death. It's only a matter of time before John does too."

Sherlock fell, down and down and down, slowly, until he was curled on the floor. "That can't happen. I can't let it. I can't let John go through that  _fucking bleeding **hell**_ again."

"But you have to." Mycroft had turned away from Sherlock, unable to look at him. "There is nothing you can do to stop it, besides killing him, which I know no one on this earth can do."

"I  _don't_ have to," Sherlock said bitingly. "I can-"

"You can't, brother mine. John will remember." His little brother slumped into the ground at that. "I want you to stay like this, you know. Forever. You and John Watson, running around like the madmen you both always are around each other, married and  _happy_ , living in 221B until eternity catches up with you. But I know and I've accepted that will not happen. And believe me, I wish the memories won't come back as well."

"Who do you have that is so important to you?" Sherlock asked numbly, not even responding really.

"It's not about me. It's about whether you can let go of this life, Sherlock. You need to in order to survive, because you won't if John goes again. Sew yourself back together, otherwise you might as well be dead."

"You didn't answer my question. Who do you have?"

Mycroft sighed. "After the night Irene Adler died, I contacted Lestrade to keep a close watch on you, and when he said he would, I asked if I could somehow repay him for the number of years he watched over you. Gregory said," Mycroft smiled bitterly, "that if I took him out for coffee, he'd consider the thanks."

"Who's Gregory?"

He rolled his eyes. "Lestrade. That's his real name."

Sherlock looked more like himself when he kicked the back of Mycroft's leg. "You dated my DI?!"

"It didn't last very long. I wish it had, I wish it had lasted much longer, but before you jumped off the St. Bart's roof, I broke it off rather brutally, basically being the Iceman Moriarty enjoyed so much. Now that his memories are back, he's going to hate me, and I've hated myself for that long enough." Mycroft looked up, away from the other Holmes brother.

"Yes, and I killed myself in front of John," Sherlock remarked drily. "You can repair your relationship with my DI, but I  _betrayed_  John and  _lied_ to John and crushed him, and whether he loved me or not, I can't let that happen one more time."

"But it will happen, Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft was completely done with this. "He will either hate you or forgive you, and either way, you have to keep living. I want you to stay alive, and I'm sure he does too."

"He'll want me to rot," Sherlock whispered dangerously.

"He loves you, you daft idiot!" Mycroft exclaimed. "That will not disappear even when he realizes how much you hurt him!"

"Neither will his desire for me to jump off that roof again, correctly this time!" Sherlock had begun to get up off the floor.

"Sherlock, you can't see what I see! John was reverting to his original state just slightly when we were talking, and even then, he had the same glowing look of people that are in love."

"But that's worse."

Mycroft stared at him. "How is that worse? When you come back, he'll love you with both memories."

Sherlock shook his head. "When I come back, he'll hate me with both memories."

Neither brother spoke for a few minutes. Silence for them usually spoke volumes, but this time, there was no speech at all. "How long do I have?" Sherlock asked into the still air. His voice was froggy and hoarse, probably from the tears slipping down his face.

"How long do you have for what?" Mycroft replied.

"How long do I have to be happy and forget what we just talked about?"

Mycroft folded his hands over his umbrella handle. "A few hours. Go to a jewelry store and buy John a ring of his own, eat dinner together at Angelo's, solve another case, laugh with him, and say your goodbyes. Instead of jumping off the roof again, you should jump off of London Bridge into the Thames. At least then, you have a better chance of living through the experience." He turned to open the door and walk out. Mycroft was not only craving alcohol, he craved cake.

"Wait, Mycroft." Sherlock paused. "Thank you."

"For what?" he laughed, almost hysterically.

"You never let me go, no matter what happened to us."

* * *

Mycroft silently and numbly climbed into one of his black cars, not acknowledging Anthea sitting next to him. "Is the information delivered, sir?" she asked, not looking up from her BlackBerry.

"Yes, it is," he replied shortly.

"Sir, you have another appointment."

"What the bloody hell 'other appointment' do I have?! I want to go back to my office and drink until I forget this whole thing ever happened, and sod anyone that tries to get in my way," Mycroft said angrily, having let his façade go before he could stop it. "I broke my little brother's heart,  _again._  And I don't want to speak to another person that could make this worse."

Anthea smiled sympathetically. "I promise you can drink as much as you want at this meeting. And I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have shouted at you."

She grinned a little more real this time. "Are you already drunk, apologizing to your lowly assistant?"

Mycroft glared at her. "Just tell me where I'm supposed to be meeting this person. Is it the Portuguese diplomat? I thought we cleared up that issue last week."

"No, it's not the diplomat. You'll see when we get there."

* * *

Sherlock nearly fell down the stairs to John. "Darling, what did Mycroft tell you? Are you okay?" his fiancé asked worriedly.

"It doesn't matter yet." Sherlock ran a finger over John's wrist. "How about we shop around some jewelry stores and find you a ring, and then tell Angelo the amazing news when we eat dinner there?"

John smiled. "That sounds lovely."

"Let's go now," Sherlock said, pulling his fiancé to the door.

"Whoa there, love. I need to grab my coat." John kissed Sherlock on the cheek before finding his jacket on a hook.

"If we get back a little early, I want to take you to bed and make love to you until we're both exhausted."

John laughed. "I'm personally all for that. What do you say? Shall we call a cab and get out of here?"

Sherlock was already on his way down to the street.

* * *

When Mycroft entered the pub, the first thing he did was order a Scotch on the rocks. He drank it within three seconds, slammed it down on the bar, and then ordered another. After he'd drank four, he stopped, and enjoyed how fuzzy his mind was getting.

"Who knew you could throw down drinks like that?" a rough, masculine voice that Mycroft wished many times he'd forgotten remarked.

"You should've. We went to pubs a couple times." Mycroft turned around to see DI Lestrade in the flesh. Or rather, Sergeant Lestrade as he was now. He had a few more lines in his face, but otherwise, it was the same (reliable, independent, good-looking) man. "Hello, Gregory."

"Hello, My." God, that nickname burned, even with the egregious amount of alcohol in Mycroft's system.

"I'm sorry, Greg. So very, very, very much sorry that you need the entire pond to hold all the sorry in."

"Wow, you are drunk." That soft look in Gregory's eyes wouldn't go away. Why wouldn't it go away? Mycroft was a horrible person and didn't deserve that look.

"Why're you bein' nice to me? I don' get to have any sort of nice."

"Oh, sweetheart, of course you do."

"Stop looking at me like that. I'm not a nice person like you. You help people and I hurt them for my own purposes." Mycroft leaned back on the bar, swinging his legs around the barstool and waving his umbrella around Greg's form. "I even hurt you, and my little brother, and my brother's fiancé. So no, you're going to stop looking at me like you used to and find another pub to be nice to men in."

And, Greg Lestrade laughed. He bloody laughed! "Mycroft Holmes, sometimes I wonder about you."

"What do ya wonder?"

"I wonder if you notice all the good you do. I also wonder if you forgot what I said to you when you 'broke up with me'." Gregory made quotes with his fingers.

Mycroft thought for a moment. "What  _did_  you say to me?"

"I said," Gregory moved closer to Mycroft, placing his hands on the intoxicated man's shoulders, "that even if you gave up on me, I would never give up on you."

Mycroft hummed a moment, staring into Greg's eyes to try and find all the little indicators that would light up if he was telling the truth. "Can I hug you?"

"Oh, love, of course you can." So, Mycroft Holmes willingly hugged someone, and didn't let go.

"I want to go out with you again when you're sober," Greg said, still holding the drunk politician.

"M'kay."

A minute passed with quiet, but then Lestrade asked, "Who on earth is Sherlock's fiance?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did feel the need to put Mystrade in this fic. Mycroft needs love too.


	23. 23:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned: here there be sadness and angst.

Sherlock looked at the clock near the bed, barely registering the numbers before turning away from it. But no matter how much he wanted to delete what he saw, he couldn't.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Time was running out.

"John?" he whispered.

"Mhm," his fiance answered.

"No."

"What?"

"You want to take me to the station, well the answer is no."

"How did you...?"

"The screaming?"

John sighed. "Yeah." Sherlock tried to muffle the ticking he heard in his head. Why did John have to play all the parts? Why did they have to recreate the memories? Why did it go on?

_Because Moriarty wanted to burn my heart out. And this is his way of doing so._

"It was Donovan," Sherlock whispered, "I bet it was Donovan. Moriarty is smart, he planted that doubt in her head, that little nagging sensation you'll have to be strong to resist."  _Please resist, John. Please resist the doubts. I won't be able to survive if you don't._ "You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home...there." He touched a finger lightly to the middle of John's forehead.

"Will you come to the station?"

"That's all Moriarty needs. The screaming and then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me," Sherlock breathed. "Inch by inch. It is a  _game_ , and a game I'm not willing to play."

A few minutes passed, in which Sherlock dressed and put on his coat. The next part of the scene was about to play out. That was all it was really: a scene from a movie that reminded its viewers how short and painful life really was. Sherlock and John's lives were almost too much for any sort of moviemaker to weave into a story, because tragedies could be endured by the population in small doses, and this was an overdose. There was no comfort, no little bit of hope that would make everything better. This was permanent. This was insurmountable and unbeatable and no matter how hard Sherlock tried, he could never rewrite the past.

"They're going to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?" John spoke now from the side of the bed. He wasn't playing Lestrade anymore. Sherlock wondered why John had to play all the minor roles but Sherlock only had to play himself. "You should have gone with them quietly, saved some trouble. People aren't watching you now."

"Why would it matter if they watched me?"

"I don't want people thinking that-"

"I don't care what people think." It was still true. John's opinion was the only one that mattered now. "Even if they thought I was stupid or wrong that would just make them stupid or wrong."

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're..." John paused, staring at the floor. "A fraud."

Sherlock took the appropriate time before responding, but he didn't want to. He didn't want himself to be right. "You're worried they're right. You're worried they're right about me."

"No."

"You have to entertain the possibility they're right, that you've been taken in."

"That's not true."

"Moriarty's been playing with you, can't you see what's going on?" His voice had a note of pleading to it.

"I know you. I see what's real. You can't fake being such an annoying, lovable dick all the time." John smiled. Why was he smiling? Sherlock was about to take himself away again, how could John just smile like that?

John began to dress as well, as if he knew what was coming. 'Lestrade and the Yarders' were going to come back now, and Sherlock was going to pretend to go with them.

"Sherlock Holmes, you're arrested on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping," 'Lestrade' said.

"It's alright," Sherlock replied, looking at John with as much love as he could muster.

"No, it's not alright. You're not resisting. This is ridiculous." The detective's mouth quirked up in a half-grin. John always stood up for him, even when he'd done something wrong.

"Get him downstairs. Now." As Sherlock began to descend the stairs, he heard John talking to himself. Or, talking to Donovan.

* * *

"I said it." Donovan gave him a cold look, like it was John's fault he didn't see this coming. "First time we met. 'Solving crimes won't be enough. One day he'll cross the line.' Ask yourself what sort of man would kidnap kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?"

John shook his head. He knew Sherlock, he knew how Sherlock worked. The reason why Sherlock was a consulting detective was to help people, but he didn't like saying it. He wanted to beat the villains, hang back in the shadows so only a few people would know what he did every day to keep the world turning. Sherlock had said he wasn't a hero, but John knew that he was. It was one of the things John loved about him.

A man in glasses came into the flat. "Did we get the man?"

"Yes, sir." Donovan probably took orders from him. John disliked the man already.

"He's a bit of a weirdo, isn't he?" The man looked around the flat. "Those vigilante types always are."

John could feel himself overheating. This man took Sherlock from him for a crime he didn't commit, just to insult him to his best friend (boyfriend? maybe? John couldn't remember that particular conversation). "What are you looking at?"

John felt his eyesight go red, and he pulled his fist back, punching the man directly on the nose.

Next thing he knew, he was partially handcuffed to Sherlock, having been shoved against a cop car.

"There's no one to bail us," John said, laughing a little, even though both him and Sherlock were currently under arrest.

"I was thinking of making a daring escape." And of course, Sherlock was totally serious. He pressed some button on the inside of the car, and snatched a gun from the back pocket of one of the officers. "Ladies and gentlemen, will you all get on your knees!" he shouted. When no one moved, he shot twice into the air. "Now!"

"Just so you know, the gun was his idea," John placated to the several people Sherlock was fooling.

"My hostage!" Sherlock held the gun to John's head.

"Yes, that works," he whispered to Sherlock, feeling the adrenaline begin to rush through his body. They walked backward a few steps. "So what do we do now?"

"Do what Moriarty wants." His voice sounded a bit strange to John, like he was holding back laughter, or tears, or both. "Become fugitives. Run!"

John could hear police cars chasing them, John heard Sherlock say, "Take my hand." John heard himself say, "Damn, I love you." And John saw him smile, smile with tears in his eyes.

"Now people really will talk."

* * *

Sherlock ran as fast as he could, stopping in the right places for dialogue, listening to the sounds of their breathing as they escaped. If only escaping was so easy in real life.

He and John jumped in front of a bus before quickly getting out of the way, cutting through back alleys and small side streets to get to safety. Sherlock never understood car chases. Cars were boring. But running, running was  _ecstasy._

"A game-changer, a key that could break into anywhere, and it was sitting in our flat," Sherlock murmured. He knew he had to say it, but he didn't mean the 'computer code'. He meant John. "Moriarty gave clues, he gave clues when he broke into those places. He meant for the people to see one thing and me to see another. Moriarty knew what would get me in the end."

* * *

_Something was wrong. John could feel it. Why did Sherlock look like he was acting? Like he'd performed this scene before? He wanted to ask him, wanted to wipe that sad, sad look off of his fiancé's face, but something was holding him back, like it wasn't his choice to control._

_"Sherlock!" he tried calling out, but Sherlock couldn't hear him. "Sherlock. I need you to hear me, can't you hear me?" John paused. "Please stop looking like that, it's breaking my heart. I don't know what's going on, but I know I can reach you."_

* * *

"John?" Sherlock waved a hand in front of his blogger's face. "John?"

John jerked his head up, looking around for a moment before calming, finding Sherlock's face. "Sorry. I spaced out for a minute there. Where are we going now?"

Sherlock grimly stared at the streetlights. "To find Richard Brook."

...

When the lights turned on in the little flat, Sherlock's eyes quickly adjusted and took in the actress. Molly had agreed to play the part of Kitty Riley after Sherlock asked her to help him, because...well, Sherlock didn't know exactly. If the detective had a better definition of friendship, perhaps he would have considered her a very good one. Molly had dressed up for the part, too. And Sherlock really had no idea why.

"Congratulations on 'The Truth About Sherlock Holmes'. The scoop that everybody wanted and you got it," Sherlock started.

Molly put a look that resembled the motion of shoulder shrugging on her face. "I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember?"  _Remember?_ Of course he did. But that began this whole mess, didn't it?

Sherlock was struck by how similar everything seemed. Not just the words and the players of parts, but the  _acting._  The lies from the truth, the meaning behind the meaning, it was all. Just. A. Game. A game with real hearts, real minds at stake, like a poker pot that had humans trapped in it. Luck and strategy wins.

"And then someone turns up and spills all the beans. Who is Brook?" Sherlock asked.

"Can't tell you." Molly folded her arms.

"Come on, Kitty. No one trusts the voice at the end of the phone." The detective went off on a long explanation of the activities her and this Brook had done, getting the story, making it real. By the time he was almost done, John was opening and shutting the nameless flat's door, becoming Moriarty in his guise of Richard Brook.

* * *

"So that's your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?"

"Of course he's Richard Brook, there is no Moriarty. There never has been." The reporter started to fuzz around the edges as John stared at her in disbelief. For a moment, she didn't even look like herself, she looked like Molly. But that was ridiculous...

"What are you talking about?" John could hear the note of anger in his voice, and he knew it would get bigger, but he couldn't help it. Moriarty had hurt him and Sherlock and Molly and he  _couldn't just stand there._

"Look him up. Rich Brook is an actor, and actor he hired to be Moriarty!" She pointed at Sherlock as if condemning him.

"You are Moriarty. HE'S MORIARTY!" John yelled behind him to Sherlock. "WE'VE MET, REMEMBER, YOU WERE GOING TO BLOW ME UP!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Moriarty placated, looking for all the world like a harmless, broke actor. "He paid me. He did all the work and he paid me."

"Sherlock," John said. "You better explain this, because I'm not getting it." Why did Sherlock look so heartbroken? He had been wrong since the Yarders showed up and John could see the signs. What was happening that John didn't know about? Hell would freeze over before he let this go.

"It's all here. Conclusive proof." Kitty handed John a stack of papers, all of which proclaimed Sherlock was a fake in big, red letters. Sherlock would never have done that, he would have rather died than have people think he was a fraud. Or he didn't cover it up as prettily as Sherlock would have.  _No, Sherlock isn't a fake, you're thinking exactly what they want you to think._ "He invented James Moriarty, he invented the crimes actually."

"For God's sake, this man was on trial!" John gestured wildly to 'Moriarty', who hadn't moved a muscle since the exchange began.

"I have proof!" Jim said. "I have proof, show him, Kitty!"

The reporter found another stack of papers and flipped through them, handing certain pieces to the blogger. John wondered why Sherlock wasn't standing up for himself or something! If it all wasn't true, than why wasn't Sherlock throwing out deductions to prove these people wrong?! "I'm the Storyteller, I'm on TV," Jim added desperately. If he really was an actor, he was damn good. John swore under his breath.

Sherlock walked a few steps toward Jim, a little, dangerous smirk on his face. "Don't touch me!" Jim shouted. "Don't lay a finger on me!"

"Stop it, stop it now!" Sherlock shouted. Jim made a break for it, skidding up the stairs and shutting a door, later escaping through a window. Sherlock ran his hands through his already very mussed hair and paced a couple lengths, leaving the flat and running out onto the street.

"Can he do that?" John asked quietly, following right behind him. "Change his whole identity?"

"Of course he can. He must have a plan, sowing doubts into people's heads the last twenty-four hours, wrapping lies in truth to make it more palatable, and, and..." Sherlock broke off.

John felt a strange sense of wrongness, as if the sentence Sherlock said hadn't come out right, like he hadn't completed the deja vu. "There's something I need to do," Sherlock continued.

"Can I help?" John asked.

The detective shook his head. Walking one stride forward, he kissed his blogger gently on the lips, and then again on the forehead. John would have to go see Mycroft about the articles Kitty had written, and Sherlock would have to set up for falling from London Bridge. When they met again, John would be angry with him, and Sherlock wanted to remember this instead.

"Don't forget that," Sherlock whispered, swishing his coat and leaving John behind.  _Don't forget I love you._

* * *

A little later, John received a phone call that woke him up. Sherlock was rolling and bouncing a blue rubber bouncy ball with one hand and catching it with the other. John thought, in that split second before he answered his phone, that the moment felt ominous, like he was about to get bad news. But Sherlock knew it too.

"Hello?" John asked tiredly, picking up the mobile from where it laid on the lab counter.

"Are you Dr. John Watson?"

"Yes."

"It's about a Mrs. Martha Hudson. You were listed as one of her emergency contacts."

John immediately sat up. "What happened? Is she okay?"

"She's been shot."

"Oh my God." He put a hand to his mouth. "I'll be right there." John ended the call.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked from a meter away. He looked like he hadn't moved from the spot in hours.

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson's been shot."

"How?"

"Probably one of the killers you managed to attract-" John realized how awful and unbelievable that sounded. "Jesus. Sherlock, she's dying. Let's go." He was halfway toward the door when Sherlock answered him.

"You go." He paused. "I'm busy." Again, Sherlock sounded like he  _had_ to say those words, like he had to get them out somehow. Or maybe John was just too blind with infatuation to see clearly! "I need to think."

"Doesn't she mean  _anything_ to you? You once nearly killed a man because he laid a finger on her." What the bloody hell was going on tonight?! This wasn't Sherlock, it wasn't Sherlock at all.

"She's my landlady."

"She's  _dying. **You machine-**_ " He stopped. John was going to get too angry, and Mrs. Hudson would still be shot. "Sod this. Sod this, I'm going. You can stay here, alone."

"Alone is what I have," Sherlock murmured brokenly. "Alone protects me." John spared one (last) look at his friend. He couldn't even think straight about the man anymore, let alone the difficult signs he was portraying.

"No, Sherlock.  _Friends_ protect people." And somehow, the detective's face fell further. Friends. A worse word to say than that John couldn't think of, but it was too late now. He had to go.

* * *

One last thought.

Sherlock was breathing heavily up here. The top of London Bridge. The Thames would be so cold, he thought to himself. Hypothermic, freezing,  _burning_. Sherlock balanced himself perfectly so that he could stay for several minutes. Mycroft had changed all the boats' sailing patterns so that he and John could do this in peace. The sky would be dark for hours yet. No one would notice he was gone but John. Wasn't that always how he wanted to die? No publicity, no ridicule, just one person (a very special person) on the ground to know what had taken place.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Time was running out.

A cab drove up to the banks of the river, and John came out of it, clutching a mobile (Harry's mobile) in his hands. Sherlock pressed speed dial #1 on his calling app and put the device to his ear. John would answer in a few rings.

"Hello?"

His voice was almost too much. Sherlock swayed on the dangerous precipice but steadied himself quickly. "John."

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John's feet dug into the strange sand of the banks, walking down and away from him.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," Sherlock pleaded. Irene said once that she would make him beg for mercy twice. He laughed internally when she said it, knowing already that only John would have that kind of power over him.

"I'm going to the dock-"

"Would you please just do as I ask?!" He hated sounding desperate. Desperate was boring, desperate was normal. Everyone was desperate, and he used to be the cool and calm one. Moriarty had accused him of being ordinary, and this was why. Desperate and in love. Who would have thought it? "Stand right there and look up," Sherlock continued. "I'm on the bridge."

John's eyes met his from so far away, and Sherlock was almost glad of it. John wouldn't be able to see how many salty streaks painted his cheeks. "Oh God," he whispered into the phone.

"Since I obviously can't come down, we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

* * *

_"Sherlock, darling, what are you doing up there?" John asked. He knew Sherlock couldn't hear him, he knew it, but he still had to ask. he didn't know what was happening, and it scared him very much._

_"Sherlock, please."_

* * *

"An apology."

John cocked his head up at the bridge. "What do you mean?"

"I'm a-" Sherlock broke off. "I'm a f-" John could sort of feel Sherlock shake his head into the phone. "Damn it all, I can't say it again. I can't. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock. Love, what do you mean? What do you need to say?"

The detective laughed, but it was wrong, bitter and sad and doomed. "This will be the third time I've fatally fallen. The first time was the day after we met, that case at Lauriston Gardens, that day you said 'Oh god yes' and tumbled into my life with a cane and a gun and your insistence I was really brilliant. You don't know what you did to me, but since we have time, I'll tell you." He paused, and John couldn't speak. "You changed everything. John Watson, it was like a bomb went off in my mind palace. Lights lined the darkest places. Do you know that you are the first person important enough for me to have one whole room in my palace for you? I guess now you do. Every time I thought of you after that was one more thing added to my amazement.

"Did you ever wonder why I got so jealous all the time? Why I drove all your girlfriends away? Why I never gave up the thought that maybe, just maybe, you would see me how I saw you?" Sherlock huffed. "I wasn't very good at any of that. But I wasn't surprised when Moriarty used you against me. The pool was really my fault, and I'm so sorry. I fell fatally for you first. Fatally because you destroyed my previous perceptions. All of them."

"Sherlock," John said in an exhale.

"No, you have to let me finish. I got off track. The second time I fell was off a rooftop, the rooftop of St. Bart's. Moriarty wanted to kill you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and he would have unless I killed myself. I tried to get the code from him that would call off his assassins, but he swallowed a bullet before I could. I couldn't stop them, John. So I did the next best thing. I told you it was all true. I told you that I really was a fraud, a fake, and that I only knew everything I knew because I wanted to impress you with my knowledge. It had to be real, you had to believe it. I'd formulated a plan with Mycroft just in case that happened, and I was to go through with it. But I wasn't supposed to really die. When I said goodbye to you, I did."

Sherlock shook his head again, and that laugh escaped his lips. John couldn't see him very well at all in the dark, and was it ever dark. "You know what dying feels like, don't you? I felt so hopeless, so lost, John. Broken, snapped. I doubted if even you could put me back together.

"Three days after I died, and I'm going to keep saying died because that's the most appropriate word I can think of for what happened, someone injected you with a serum. For lack of a better term, it was a memory loss serum. You forgot the entire year you knew me, from the moment we met to two days after my death. I'm sorry. Moriarty wanted to hurt me, and you got in the way. He wanted to make it so that when I came back, I would stay lost and barely functional."

John let a few tears fall. "What happened then? Keep talking."

Sherlock paused a moment. "Moriarty had a web of criminals that needed dismantling. Mycroft knew I was the only one that could do it, and so I did. I didn't know what had occurred with you until a few days before I got back. If possible, it only made my condition worse. I was a mess when Mycroft summoned me back."

"I was a mess when you were gone too," John said, and he didn't know where it came from.

"Please let me finish. Please, John. I could never explain before."

"Okay."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I found out you still lived in 221B, and I had to see you, so I moved into 221C, so that maybe I could pass by you once in a while, know you were alright. But it wasn't enough. I needed to be over you, I needed to move on, otherwise, I wasn't sure if I was going to survive at all." He laughed, this time with a bit of humor. "I cooked up this experiment to spend time with you, as your boyfriend, just to see if that little taste could get me through a lifetime of being without my John. I told you that it was just pretending. I hope you know that it was never pretending for me. That was my reality.

"Baby, you asked me to marry you. And I'm sorry that I can't unless I survive this and you'll still have me." John knew he was crying now, crying full out, and Sherlock was crying too. "I'm sorry for lying to you, I'm sorry I hurt you, and I'm sorry I have to take my last fatal fall. But I'm not sorry for loving you and I never will be."

"Sherlock, alright stop it now. Just stop."

"Goodbye, John. Don't...forget...me."

Those last words were snatched by the wind as Sherlock Holmes fell, coat billowing around him and the air bitingly cold.  _Don't forget me._


	24. 00:00

For a single moment, nothing moved.

The wind had stopped howling, the clouds had stopped floating past, the water had stopped splashing, forming a little funnel around Sherlock's entry point. For a single moment, John couldn't move.

Then that moment passed.

"SHERLOCK!"

The freezing spray blew into John's face, and he sputtered before running as fast as he could to the water's edge. He paused before entering. "I need to call 999," he whispered. But his body took over.

"You are NOT going to leave me after that," he murmured, yanking his shoes off and wading into the river. The current was sluggish, mostly because it was nighttime, but also because of how  _fucking cold_  it was. John swore several times, really loudly, as his feet started to go numb.

The doctor in John's head began to do some nasty calculating. The Bridge was around nine meters above the river, and Sherlock had jumped from it, accelerating 9.8 meters per second. Sherlock had fallen for only a couple seconds, crashing into hypothermic water, having been going pretty fast before. "SHITE." John awkwardly shuffled forward, reaching out with one hand to feel around for a body.

"I'm going to KILL you when I find you," the blogger said, laughing almost too long afterward. It really wasn't funny. Sherlock was in danger,  _again._ "No, I won't. But you NEED to stop DOING this to me. You do."

John had some trouble thinking. His mind was still a bit disconnected, past memories to present memories. One thing stood out his scrambled thoughts, though.

He had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. And he wasn't about to let him go (again). Ever.

Everything burned: his legs, his hands, his head. Moriarty was an sadistic, psychotic ass, but he was so hatefully right about the burning. "That man had NO IDEA I would burn with you, did he? Moriarty NEVER knew that." John's voice hadn't gotten any quieter since he first yelled Sherlock's name. He knew he would scream his lungs out if it got the detective back to him.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES, PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!" John frantically attempted to go deeper, diving under the murky, icy water for just one second to try and find him. "YOU CAN'T!" He coughed a few times before returning to his search, hands barely able to move.

The doctor grew tired too quickly, with too much of the disgusting, silt-filled liquid in his throat and no sign of the consulting detective. John's vision, already impeded by the dark, began to haze over, blurring and flickering in and out. "Darling, where are you?" he cried. "I can't find you anywhere." The water rushed past noisily, as if to purposely hinder him.

John's body swayed a little, his legs wanting to give out. Freezing numbness could only last so long without hurting someone. "Sherlock," he called weakly. "Now would be a good time. Imissyou. I...miss you." The Thames kept flowing, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight. "I LOVE YOU!"

Suddenly, as if some listening god had answered his prayer, John noticed a flash of dark hair and green fabric.  _Sherlock is wearing that shirt he wore on our first date,_  John remembered slowly. "Holy fuck," he breathed. "Sherlock!"

He grabbed for the detective, not caring exactly what he was grabbing. His only conscious thoughts surrounded getting his (er...) boyfriend (fiancé?) out of the freezing river as fast as he possibly could. This was one of the many problems with being in an army posted to Afghanistan: John had quite a bit of experience with heat. Cold? Not so much.

"Don't worry. I'll get you help," the doctor said to the inert body floating next to him, fighting his way through the current. "I'll take care of you."

Sherlock didn't answer, but John didn't expect him to. With a heave of impressive strength considering how little John could move his arms, he pulled Sherlock onto the dry sand. The genius was still beautiful, even with his blue lips and too pale skin.

He knelt down and pressed an ear to the detective's chest, looking for a heartbeat. However used he was to Sherlock's erratic heartbeat, it didn't prepare him for not hearing one at all. "Damn it, you are not going to leave me like this. It's unfair and awful." John began chest compressions, counting out twenty-five in quick succession before listening for a heartbeat again. Nothing. He opened Sherlock's mouth and kissed him, blowing two great gusts of air into his lungs. Sherlock's heart didn't even flutter.

Two more sets of CPR later, John's hands were getting cramped. He cursed as he leaned back down to his detective's chest, listening. "One more time," he whispered, voice cracking. "Just for me. Just...stop it. Stop this." One last time, John opened Sherlock's mouth and breathed for him, longer than he had before, silently begging Sherlock with his mouth to wake up. It turned into more of a kiss the last few seconds, a goodbye kiss, but John refused to think that.

After a little while, the doctor had to pull away. For a very long moment, he himself couldn't breathe. Everything was so heavy, like someone had dropped three injured men on his shoulders. His lungs weren't even freezing anymore; they seemed to be collapsing in on themselves. He huffed and tried to intake air, but it was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of it.

But, then he could breathe again.

Sherlock jerkily half-sat up, spitting out river water and coughing. John sighed loudly, laughing a little bit. "Is that you, John?" he asked shakily, reaching a hand up to the doctor's heart. "You saved me."

"Yes, I did, you ruddy bastard." John held the hand to his chest. "Did you expect I wouldn't?"

"I'm a natural cynic, in addition, I caused a great deal of trouble." Sherlock shrugged. "People don't come back for me on principle."

John glared at him. "Let's start with this: WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?!"

The detective's mask fell far, farther than John had ever seen it go. "Your memories were gone, and in order to get them back, I had to recreate them. It was the easiest way to do it, but not for me." Sherlock paused. "The mind isn't as stable as everyone thinks it is, and yours is no different. Your mind had to begin and remain intact, and so, I fixed it the way it was made."

John shook his head. "You didn't have to almost kill yourself. There were other ways."

"But if there wasn't?" Sherlock smirked darkly. "I refused to live without you a long time ago, and if you didn't save me, I figured I didn't need to be saved."

John's face heated up in fury. "Let me get this straight. You hate yourself so much that you were willing to kill yourself to make sure I could survive alone, you egocentric, narcissistic, selfish arsehole!"

"What about my methods makes me selfish, my dear doctor?" Sherlock asked scathingly. "I almost died for you!"

"You didn't think about my feelings at all! Did it cross your amazing, brilliant mind that I want to be with you no matter what kind of utterly crazy things you do and how much you believe I don't?" John stopped, looking away. "Don't want to be with you, that is. I do."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, which looked kind of difficult to accomplish on the sand. "I'm selfish for not considering your feelings? Is that all this was about?" The detective flushed slightly. "You called me names because you still love me?"

John huffed. "You fucking scared me. And pissed me off. And made me find your body in a disgusting river during wintertime. And yes," John said, "I'm aware it's not technically winter yet." He leaned down to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "But through all of that, and by all of that I mean  _everything_ , I still care about you more than anything. So there."

The two of them didn't move for a long time, or maybe just felt like a long time. Sherlock's hand was over John's heart, and John's hand was placed over the top of that. John half-laid on top of Sherlock, and Sherlock had his lips mere millimeters away from John's neck. The detective could feel his love's pulse just a little. ThuThump. ThuThump. ThuThump. John was so strong all the time, he thought. Strong and soft and brilliant and wonderful. And Sherlock didn't deserve him. Not one bit.

* * *

Harry picked up her phone groaning, "Yeah?" into it. She had just woken up, since it was  _12 in the bloody morning_.

"Hello, Harriet."

"Sherlock?" Harry sat up in bed. Clara shifted to make a few wild gestures asking about the call. Harry shook her head, she had no idea.

"Yes. This is completely off the record, but I reattempted the jump from London Bridge and survived, only thanks to your brother. Don't tell anyone I tried it again, please? John wants me to stay out of the papers for once."

"Holy mother of Jesus! Sherlock Holmes, you tried to fucking  _kill yourself_ again?! Really? Why in the bleeding hell was that necessary? Tell me the whole fucking story or I send Lestrade and Irene after you!" Clara's eyes grew wide beside Harry.

Harry could feel Sherlock rolling his eyes through the phone. "I had to recreate John's memories, remember? That included the unfortunate circumstances of my suicide." He paused. "I have...a question. If you think you can answer it, that is." The sound of fidgeting came through. "I mean, you don't have any obligation to answer me, it's not  _that_  important. But I'd really like to know what you think. Maybe. If it's alright-"

"Sherlock, honey, you can ask us anything," Clara cut in, taking the mobile from her wife. Something was clearly wrong, even an idiot could see it.

The detective sighed. "Well, John saved me. But afterward, he didn't touch me very much, and he said he  _cared_ about me. Do you think...John won't want to marry me anymore because he had to save me?" Clara's mouth fell open. "I've always been a burden to him, so it makes sense that after this he'll leave. What do you think?"

Harry yanked the phone out of Clara's hand. "What the hell do you mean? Johnny loves you no matter what crazy-ass things you do!"

"But what if he doesn't? I've made such a mess, Harriet. John has quite a right to go."

Clara took the mobile back. "From what I've seen, John loves and wants to marry you just as much as you do. And if you're so worried about it, ask him yourself! We can only give advice; he can give you answers. Please, don't make the mistake of thinking you aren't loved. Harry and I did, and the only reason we're together now is because we talked it out."

"You more than talked it out," Sherlock interrupted. "You had many, many physical interludes throughout that particular conversation."

"So maybe that's what you should do," Harry added, ignoring who held the phone and putting him on speaker. "Have some amazing sex, and work out your issues that way."

"I'm not doing that!" Sherlock said indignantly.

"You don't have to," Clara soothed, glaring a little at her wife. "Just talk to him. John is understanding by nature. It'll be fine."

"I don't believe you, but I'll take your advice." Sherlock sounded only slightly more hopeful than when the call began. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, love. Anytime." Clara hung up, but not before turning the speakerphone off.

"That man needs to get laid," Harry muttered, curling around Clara once more. "Seriously."

* * *

Sherlock set his mobile down on the table. John was in the shower, having stated immediately when they got back to the flat that he needed to get clean at all costs. Sherlock didn't blame him; his fiance (?) wasn't as used to getting dirty on cases as he was. He smirked when he remembered the pig's blood all over him before the Baskerville case. The trident was fun as well.

"Focus, William," he murmured.

Sherlock knew that there was a good chance John would leave him for a while after this. It was one of the reasons he'd formulated the experiment after all, so that he would be free of the hurt his actions caused the doctor that in turn hurt himself. Apparently, that plan had gone up in flames. He tapped his fingers restlessly on the kitchen counter-top, waiting for John to come back. Clara was right, he had to confront John about his perceived observations.

John was actually not showering at all. He had the water running, but hadn't stepped in, watching the steam fog up the mirror. Sherlock Holmes, the man he'd fallen in love with (twice), had attempted suicide (again) to help John (again), and didn't think he deserved to stay with John, even though they both had insisted how much they loved the other a hell of a lot of times. He was angry at Sherlock, and sad, and really wanted to kiss his fiancé, hard. A shower would actually help.

He stepped behind the curtain, sighing in happiness as the water washed away the silt and other more disgusting things dumped into the Thames. That river had a serious need for cleanliness, or some new laws or something. Jesus. John found the soap and lathered it in his hand, sliding some of it over his shoulders.

A knock sounded on the door, hesitant and nervous. "Can I come in?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course." John didn't even think about his answer.

He heard Sherlock shuffle into the room and sit on the chair by the sink. "Do you need to get cleaned up?" John asked, reaching for the shampoo bottle.

"Most likely. I had something I had to ask you about before then." Sherlock paused. "Do you still love me? As in, do you still want to marry me? I understand perfectly if you don't, I am not anyone's ideal choice in mate."

John dropped the shampoo bottle on his foot. "Shit," he said loudly, bending down to pick it up. "Sherlock, you are an idiot."

Sherlock started to protest, but John cut him off. "Don't deny it. That will only piss me off further. Sherlock, I fell for you  _twice,_  asked you to marry me, and participated in a memory reconstruction that just confirmed how much I loved you before this whole thing happened. Through all of that, you don't think I love you? I almost want to strangle you, or punch you in the face, or kiss you senseless."

The detective didn't speak. "You still want me? In all seriousness?"

John huffed. "I want to see your face, actually. Perhaps to punch you, but I want to see you." His shampoo had washed out, bubbles swishing down the drain.

Sherlock rustled his coat for a few seconds, but John didn't know why until the shower curtain opened, the detective stepping fully clothed into the stream of water. He was wearing the t-shirt and jeans again, John couldn't believe he hadn't noticed before, and the water quickly suctioned the shirt to his skin. John licked his lips as he stared at his fiancé. Damn, that man had him wrapped around his little finger.

"I was going to just ask you to peek your head in, but I'm finding this view much better," the doctor whispered, running his hands over Sherlock's sides and hips. That t-shirt was thinner but just as revealing as glass, accentuating all the scars John had kissed, all the past injuries John had catalogued, all the things that differentiated this man from everyone else. Sherlock's normally curly hair was plastered to his skull, and his eyes were glowing brightly. His jeans were darkening with water, his feet were bare, and his hands were just as careful. Beautiful. "I want to kiss you, Sherlock."

"I want that too." Sherlock moved forward and pressed his lips to John's, sliding his fingers down his love's chest, hearing John intake a sharp breath as he goes farther. "I want you, John Hamish Watson. Please?"

"Okay."

* * *

The wedding ceremony wasn't anything to write home about, John remembered with a smile. The only people there were Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Harry and Clara, and Irene. He and Sherlock had wanted to elope, but their landlady wouldn't have it. So, a vaguely public ceremony it was.

Sherlock had just kissed John's ring, and John kissed his, and the whole thing was over after the presiding whatever guy had pronounced them husbands. John had grinned at Sherlock, and Sherlock had grinned back. There really wasn't any need for words.

"Mr. Holmes?" John turned around.

"Yes, Mr. Watson?"

Sherlock set a cup of tea in front of him. "Do you think we could have been together without the ordeals we went through? All the pretending and all the unhappiness?"

"You forgot the angst and two attempted suicides," John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. "Could we have done it?"

John kissed his husband on the forehead. "It's  _us._  We would have made it no matter what."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading this. Comments, bookmarks, kudos, etc. would be much appreciated but honestly I'm just excited to share this story on a new platform. :) Have a lovely day, all!


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